


An Assortment of Broken Bones

by BabyCharmander



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: (finally getting some goshdang broken bones in this thing), (more characters as more oneshots are posted), (more tags will be added as more oneshots are posted), Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Broken Bones, Common Cold, Crisis Catch-and-Carry, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exhaustion, F/M, Family Fluff, Flashbacks, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Memory Loss, Oneshot collection, Panic Attack, Sickfic, Thunderstorms, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-06-10 01:06:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 37,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15280206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabyCharmander/pseuds/BabyCharmander
Summary: A collection of oneshots in which bad things happen to our favorite characters.Chapters are labeled by prompt and characters.Current chapter: Common Cold with Héctor and Imelda, post-movie.





	1. Crisis Catch-and-Carry (Héctor, Imelda)

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya folks! I've got something a bit different for you today. I've started something over on Tumblr called Bad Things Happen Bingo, and have started taking prompt submissions for it. Interested in shooting me a prompt yourself? Head to the end-of-fic notes and check out
> 
> If you're wondering about Neither Can You, no worries! It's still being worked on. I've recently come across a writing tool that's helped me immensely with that, so right now I'm alternating between writing one-shots, and writing scenes for NCY. As of the time of my writing this, I'm roughly halfway finished with the next chapter!
> 
> Anyway, to get things started, here's the first prompt for my Bad Things Happen Bingo challenge:
> 
> Prompt: Crisis Catch-and-Carry  
> Characters: Imelda and Héctor, pre-movie

He was following her.

Imelda had come out into this part of the city to scout out a location for her _zapateria_. Right now she was still living with her parents, but one day the rest of her family was going to join her here. She hoped that wouldn’t be soon—she wouldn’t wish an early death on anyone, no matter how much she missed them—but the sooner she got her business established, the more comfortable her family would be when they joined her here. And the sooner she found a building she could use, the sooner she could set up shop.

But a certain _ex_ -family member was making it very hard for her to focus right now.

Refusing to look back or even acknowledge his presence, Imelda kept her back straight, her shoulders stiff, and her head facing forward. If she ignored him, perhaps he would leave her alone.

Even with the noise of the people surrounding them—it was early evening, and there were plenty of people out shopping and chatting—she couldn’t help but notice the grating _clack, clack, clack_ of bones against cobblestone behind her.

A child she could understand, or even a teenager, but what sort of self-respecting _adult_ walked around barefoot? Let alone someone in their—how old was he—mid forties, at the absolute youngest? It wasn’t exactly easy to tell when they were all bones, but his stupid voice and the condition of that mop on his head told her that the years had been kind to him.

How wonderful for him.

She had to focus on her task and get home, but every time she stopped to see if a building was for sale or for rent, she could hear _him_ stop, then quicken his pace to reach her. A few times she’d even glimpsed him reaching toward her, but she’d moved away immediately. While it would be easy to start a scene—to strike at him, immediately start yelling at him and grab the attention of everyone else around them—she really did not want to deal with him at all right now.

So she’d make it easy for him, and wait for him to give up.

Ten or so minutes into this, she thought she’d succeeded—she could no longer hear him following, and a cursory glance showed no sign of her ex anywhere, so she let her shoulders sag in relief. That had been simple enough.

Or perhaps _too_ simple.

When she’d stopped at another potential building, running over the figures in her head (how long it would take her to earn the funds required to buy the building, if it would be large enough, if there were living quarters somewhere nearby), she heard it again.

_Clack, clack, clack._

_Ese idiota._

Imelda grit her teeth, picking up her pace to avoid the unwanted skeleton. He’d tried to catch her off-guard, and she’d nearly fallen for it.

This time, she would walk around some of the more crowded streets, hoping to lose him that way. It eventually worked—whether she’d actually lost him, or he’d backed off or given up, she couldn’t hear his footsteps any longer. Hoping this would be the last time she’d have to shake him off, she resumed her search for an available building.

Of course, that only went on for so long. Fifteen minutes later she heard the grating sound of bone against cobblestone once more, and knew that persistent fool was back to following her.

Thus continued the annoying game of back-and-forth. He at least allowed her some time to note the locations of some potential buildings—she’d give him that, but that was _all_ she’d give him. After a few more instances of this—of her shaking off of her pursuer for a time before he inevitably returned—Imelda was getting tired and frustrated.

Still, she really didn’t want to cause a scene. While causing a scene would be more than enough to drive him away for good, it would also mean people around her asking her what was going on, possibly siding with him, maybe even calling the police… and she was _not_ in the mood for any of that. But there was one other thing she could do—it wasn’t ideal, but she’d be able to chase him off without drawing attention to herself.

Instead of taking a loop back around to the main streets, Imelda took another turn, heading to some of the less populated ones. There were still people here and there, mostly ones heading home from work, but she kept taking odd turns until she found herself in an empty street.

_Clack… clack clack, clack…_

His steps were far more uncertain now. Good.

Stopping, she put a hand to her chin, pretending to be in deep thought, and waited. And sure enough, out of the corner of her eye she saw him reaching out toward her dress.

Her shoe was off in an instant, and she swung it at his hand.

“ _Don’t_ touch me!” Imelda spat, and Héctor yanked his hand away, yelping as though he’d been struck.

He hadn’t—he’d pulled away fast enough—but his posture echoed that of a dog that had just been swatted on the nose. His shoulders were hunched, and his right arm was held close to his chest, his left hand gripping it protectively. In his right hand was a paper of some sort—likely whatever he’d been trying to slip into her apron pocket.

“What kind of idiot do you take me for?” she growled, pointing her shoe at him like a pistol. “You think I didn’t notice you following me?”

“I-I…” Héctor’s eyes were narrowed in a pained, guilty expression. “Imelda, _lo siento_ , I-I just—”

“You just couldn’t approach me normally like a decent human being?”

That made him pause, and he exhaled through his nasal cavity, straightening his spine. “Not if you’re going to threaten to _hit_ me every time I try to speak,”  he shot back.

“How do you expect me to respond when a strange man tries to grab me?” She reached down to replace her shoe, but never took her eyes off of him.

“Strange—? I- _Imelda_!” he cried, and she ignored the way his voice cracked. “I’m your _husband_!”

“A husband who left his wife alone with a child for _fifty years_.” She swallowed, infuriated at the phantom feeling of her throat tightening. No, she wasn’t going to get emotional over _him_. Not any emotion other than anger, anyway; she’d stopped crying over him years ago, and she wasn’t about to start again now. “That’s long enough to make you a stranger to _anyone_.”

Now his anger and grief seemed to mix together as he took a step forward, fist curling around the paper. “I-I’ve been _trying_ to tell you, Imelda, I _wanted_ to come h-home—”

“That’s what that letter says, isn’t it?” she said, and he immediately stepped back, wide-eyed. “Don’t look so shocked. Do you think I’d forgotten all the letters you wrote before? ‘Don’t worry, _mi amor_ , I’ll only be gone for a few more days.’ ‘I’m sorry, Imelda, the tour’s been extended a few weeks.’ ‘I miss you so much, but it’ll only be another month now.’”

Imelda had begun pacing without realizing it, and she didn’t care to stop now. “I remember those letters, Héctor. Do you know why? Because I read them again and again to Coco, when she asked me when her papá was coming home, over and over—”

“I-Imelda—”

“And the more times I reread them, the more I realized you _weren’t_ coming home.” Her voice was rough with grief, with the memory of her daughter’s tears.

“ _Imelda_ —”

“What makes you think I’d want to read _another_ one of those letters?!” She stopped pacing now to glare at him, and was even more infuriated to see that he kept looking from her, to something else, as though looking for a way to escape. “And now you’re just trying to run away, _again_ —”

Frantically he put a finger to his mouth— _be quiet, stop talking._

“I will _not_ stop talking, Héctor, not until you—”

There was a deafening noise in the distance behind her, like a _hiss_ crossed with a ragged _snarl_.

Immediately she spun around, staring down the street at a hulking, glowing monstrosity that was now barreling toward her.

Something snagged her arm and began to drag her, and immediately her legs got to work at keeping pace. Fury burned in her chest when she realized just who had grabbed her, and she yanked her arm away. While part of her wanted to snap at Héctor to not touch her, this was not the time for fighting.

“What’s wrong with that _alebrije_?!” she shouted over the loud scrabbling of claws against cobblestone  behind her.

“Rogue,” Héctor panted in reply. “It happens sometimes, no one knows why—”

“Why is it coming after us?”

“The shouting, maybe?!”

Now she wished she’d let Pepita follow her to the market. She hadn’t known there was any danger of rogue spirit creatures—she’d only been here for a little over two months, and no one had spoken a word of such a thing.

Probably because they weren’t expecting her to wander into a dangerous area in an attempt to lose her ex-husband—

Héctor grabbed arm again, and nearly pulled it out of its socket as he dove off to the side, into a narrow alley between two buildings. Imelda fell on top of him, but he was quick to scramble backward, still holding onto her. “ _¡Apúrate!_ ” he hissed urgently, and she crawled after him on all fours.

Just in time, as the _alebrije_ snapped its long muzzle right where she’d been lying, dribbling foam out of its mouth and into the dirt.

It was an enormous rat, or something like one—it seemed to bear fangs alongside the massive incisors, and had long whiskers like a catfish. While not as big as Pepita, it was still too big to fit its body into the alley, as much as it tried. It was scraping along the ground with its webbed feet and pink claws, wriggling its body, but its back end—which bore a large tail more closely resembling that of a fish of some sort—would not get through. Still it kept its head stretched out as far as it could, its glowing eyes casting a green light over Héctor and Imelda.

Looking past the ragged skeleton lying just beyond her, she found the other side of the alley to be blocked by a wall. They were trapped.

Potentially.

“Stay back,” Héctor whispered, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “It’ll give up, eventually.”

Imelda did not stay back. She was not about to sit in a cramped space for any amount of time with her ex-husband, _alebrije_ or no _alebrije_.

Her boot was off, and it connected with the rat’s nose before she could question herself.

Héctor shouted something, but Imelda heard none of it over the _shriek_ of the enraged _alebrije_ as its head swung off to one side, its purple nose flaring a bright pink at the impact. When it raised one of its webbed paws to rub at its nose, she swung her shoe again, striking the paw.

With another wild _shriek_ , the monstrous rat began to scramble backward, spitting and snarling all the while. Imelda kept up the assault, not getting quite as many strikes in as the thing continued to back away. Héctor was still yelling somewhere behind her, but she ignored him, marching steadily forward until the beast was finally out of the alley. At that point it seemed to have regained its senses and lunged forward in an attempt to snap at Imelda, but she was prepared, and struck at its upper jaw.

This time a glowing yellow fang flew out of the _alebrije’s_ mouth, and it threw its head back with a chilling _howl_.

Wasting no time, Imelda shoved her boot back onto her foot and took off in the opposite direction, hoping the injury to the _alebrije’s_ paw would be enough to keep it behind her until she got away. She wished Pepita were here…

…Wait, _Pepita_!

Sticking her fingers in her mouth, Imelda gave a shrill whistle, looking around for any sign of her own _alebrije_. She could still hear the rogue creature snarling behind her, but not running after her, at least. Maybe it had given up—she wasn't sure if she’d broken any bones in its paw, or if the bones of an _alebrije_ could even be broken, but it was her only hope until Pepita got here.

Just as she got past the next building, there was another shriek behind her, but it wasn't the _alebrije’s_.

Risking a look over her shoulder, she found the rat pressing its good paw down over the foot of a certain skeleton, who was sprawled out on the ground and struggling to get back up. The _alebrije_ lifted its paw, allowing Héctor to scramble for a moment, only to smack its paw down on his foot again. That horrible creature—was it _toying_ with him?

“AGH—!” Héctor turned himself around (leaving his foot twisted backward, Imelda realized with a pang of disgust), sitting upright and pounding his fists against the _alebrije’s_ webbed paw. “Let me go, _estúpido_ —!”

The _alebrije_ snapped at his skull.

It missed, for Héctor had yanked backward just in time, but still managed to knock the skull off of Héctor's shoulders. He caught it, swiftly re-attaching it to his spine, and struggled to pull away with even more effort—this time succeeding, flying backward with an odd _pop_.

Imelda was impressed for a moment until she realized he’d left his foot behind. _Idiota_ , how did he plan to run away now?

The _alebrije_ seemed just as confused as it lifted its webbed paw away from the detached foot. In an instant, the foot flew back to reattach to Héctor’s leg, and as he rose to his feet he gave a cry of triumph—

—that immediately turned into a cry of pain as he fell back on his face.

_Idiota_ , just as she'd thought. Now where was Pepita…?! She gave another shrill whistle, hoping her own _alebrije_ was close enough to hear. Yet she found herself continuing to look back to Héctor—to make sure that monster wasn't in danger of coming after _her_ instead.

“No, nononono!” Héctor scrambled on his hands and knees, trying to get away from the giant rat, who, if it had been amused at all before, was significantly less amused now. “Get away!”

The _alebrije_ was focused on Héctor, looking very much like it wanted to snap his spine in half and gnaw his bones down to nothing. All of its attention was on him, and it would be very, very easy for Imelda to get away unscathed—to keep running until it couldn't track her, or until Pepita finally came.

And yet before she realized it, she was halfway to the _alebrije_ , charging at him with an angry shout: “Go away, you oversized _mouse_!”

She didn't take off her boot, this time stomping down on the monster's only good front paw. Héctor was staring at her, his gaze a mix of surprise, amazement, and, annoyingly, _hope_. But she ignored it for now, scooping up the skeleton and throwing him over her shoulder as she took off down the road.

“I-Imelda…!” he stammered, sounding very nearly on the verge of tears, and Imelda gritted her teeth.

“I can't have it on my conscience to leave someone for dead, unlike a _certain no-good músico_.”

That shut him up quite effectively, at least for a few moments, giving her plenty of time to focus on the screeching and the constant _thud thud thud_ of the beast behind her. Wondering how on earth it was still running on two injured legs, she spared a glance over her shoulder to find, to her dismay, the first paw she'd injured had already healed.

“Those things heal fast,” Héctor remarked. It seemed the urgency of the situation had taken precedence over his emotions for now. “It's gonna catch up if we don't do something!”

Giving another shrill whistle, Imelda looked around the skies for any sign of Pepita—she must have been lounging about the courtyard at her parents’ house, taking a late nap. Some mouser she'd become!

“There! _There_!” Héctor began flailing in her grip, and she nearly dropped him. “Left!”

Imelda automatically ran to her left, only to stop when she found herself faced with a building with boarded-up windows. There was no alley to cut through, no shortcut. “There's nothing here!”

“No, no, there's a hole there, toward the ground, see?” There was indeed a hole in the wall, far too small for any skeleton to fit through.  “No one uses this building, and if we disconnect a bone or two, we can squeeze in—”

He couldn’t be serious. “Absolutely _not_.”

“No, I-I've done this before!” he said, which was less than reassuring. “We can hide in there until it goes away—”

“I am not tearing my body apart to hide with _you_!”

“It doesn't _hurt_ , and you can put yourself—”

“No.”

“ _IMELDA_!” His voice was loud and hiked in pitch, making her pause. “Would you just _listen_ to me for once—?!”

The alebrije was gaining speed behind her, and she did not care. “No.”

“¿¡ _Por qué_ , Imelda?!”

“Because nothing good has ever, ever come from listening to the _idiota músico_ that promised me the world, only to leave me alone in it.” And she let go, shrugging him off of her shoulder and turning around as he fell to the ground. She'd gotten him out of danger, and she wanted nothing else to do with him.

“NO! STOP!” Behind her, Héctor was trying to lift himself to his feet, only to give another cry of pain.

Ignoring him, she pulled off her boot again, marching toward the oncoming, furious _alebrije_.

Her ex-husband was screaming behind her, the monster was howling in front of her, and whatever would happen next, she was ready for it.

Which included the ferocious roar that exploded in the skies over her head, and the sudden cacophony of color and sound that came from another creature’s diving immediately in front of her and on top of the feral _alebrije_. Though her bones shook as she replaced her shoe, Imelda watched the ensuing fight calmly. This wasn't the first time she’d seen Pepita take care of a rat, after all.

Said rat’s neck was in Pepita’s jaws, and the jaguar swung it around like a ragdoll, barely managing to avoid hitting any nearby buildings. She then flew up into the air, wings straining against the added weight, before dropping her burden. With a dramatic mid-air spin and a strike from Pepita’s tail, the rat sailed down the street, skidding until it crashed into a wall.

Finally it got up onto its legs and scrambled away, yelping all the while.

" _Gracias_ , Pepita," Imelda breathed as her alebrije landed beside her.

The great cat purred, nudging her gently and licking her with her enormous tongue. In turn, Imelda ran her hand over the _alebrije’s_ fur, scratching her just behind the horns.

“Y… you're okay.”

Immediately the warm scene was shattered. Imelda tensed, and Pepita stopped purring, her ears turning back.

Keeping a hand on Pepita’s head, Imelda turned to face Héctor, who was finally upright and braced against a wall. In spite of the fact that he stood a good foot or so taller than her, he shrank under her gaze, looking between her and her _alebrije_.

“Yes,” she said, and Héctor shivered. “I am.”

He could no longer meet her eyes, and his gaze fell to the ground.

A tangible silence fell over the three before he finally muttered something, his voice barely above a whisper:

“ _Lo siento_.”

Taking a moment to look him over, Imelda eyed his injured foot, which he kept off the ground. There were no cracks in the bone, as far as she could tell—it was not a grave injury, and he would recover, but not as fast as the _alebrije_ had. “Can you walk?”

Héctor looked away, seeming very interested in the paint peeling on the wall. He tried to lower his foot to the ground, but hissed sharply. “I can… make my way home,” he said, a strained smile pulling at his mouth.

With a knowing look at Pepita, Imelda patted her _alebrije_ on the shoulder.

Needing no more instruction, Pepita strode up to Héctor, who braced himself further against the wall, as though it would grant some form of protection. Of course, it did no such thing, and Pepita launched her head at him, mouth open wide.

Héctor screamed for a long while before realizing that Pepita was not biting down. Imelda might have been a little amused had this been a situation with any other person, but not with him. Crossing her arms, she watched as Pepita turned around, striding up to her with Héctor hanging from her mouth like a ragged cat toy.

Imelda stepped closer until she was a foot away from his face.  Once he finally looked her in the eyes, she addressed him: “You do not approach me. You do not write me letters. You do not chase me into shady streets where some crazy _alebrije_ tries to eat the both of us.”

For a moment he looked like he wanted to say something, but he choked back his words, staring at the cobblestones below. “ _Sí_ , Imelda,” he said instead.

Something caught in her throat, but she swallowed it down, trying to smooth over the roughness in her voice. “…I suppose something good _did_ come from your abandoning us.”

He flinched at the word.

“You taught me something, Héctor.” She waited until he looked at her again, and then: “I learned that I don't need you.”

And she stepped back, nodding to Pepita, who ducked down before springing into the air.

“Pepita will take you home, and you can get your foot taken care of,” she called after him. “And after that _, don't come back_.”

Waiting until Pepita was a good distance away, Imelda drew in a shaking breath, scrubbing at her eye sockets with the heel of her hand. It was a stressful day, that was all. There was nothing else to cry over.

You don’t cry over things you don't need.


	2. Memory Loss (Héctor, Imelda)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are with the next prompt!! I hope I can keep this productivity up because it feels great. \o/ The next thing I'll be updating is Neither Can You!
> 
> OH BEFORE I FORGET--thanks to PaperGardener and Jaywings for beta-reading this for me!! They beta-read the last oneshot, too, but I forgot to mention it.
> 
> And noooww...
> 
> Prompt: Memory Loss  
> Characters: Héctor and Imelda, post-movie

_THUD._

It took the exhausted Riveras a few moments to register the sound above their heads. After a long, frantic night and a very long day of resting, recovering, and trying to figure out just what they were going to do with their unconscious guest upstairs, none of them were fully prepared for what they should do when he _did_ wake up. A few of them had tossed out ideas—Victoria had suggested that he’d probably want to leave again as soon as he was awake, while Rosita insisted that they should keep him here, at least until his injuries mended—but Imelda had decided that they would talk it out with him, once he was awake.

And given that the sound had come from two floors up, in the guest room they’d put him in, it sounded like it was time.

After marching up the two flights of stairs, Imelda forced herself to slow down before she entered the guest room they’d put him in. He was probably rather confused now that he was awake, so she’d have to be slow and quiet.

It was still difficult to say how she felt about her… husband? staying in her house. It had been so long since she’d wanted to be anywhere near him, she felt a little unnerved. It was entirely possible he didn’t want to stay—she’d certainly done her job of making him feel unwelcome over the past several decades—and she would be fine with that. She’d lived and died without him all this time, never finding that she really, truly needed him—would it really matter if he stayed or not?

Shaking her head, she quietly stepped up to the door, but was surprised to hear the sound of frantic scrambling on the other side. Perhaps she’d underestimated how confused he would be—she probably should have kept someone there to watch him so he wouldn’t wake up alone.

When Imelda opened the door, she found the lanky skeleton sprawled on the floor next to the bed, his lower body tangled in the bedsheets. He seemed caught in the act of trying to untangle himself as he looked up at her with an expression she couldn’t immediately read.

Before she could say anything, he gave a frantic yell, trying to scramble backwards and only succeeding on hitting his shoulder against the bed frame. He gave a yelp of pain, his left leg spasming (Imelda remembered that he’d been limping on it badly all last night), and looked back up at her, terrified.

Wonderful—this was exactly what she’d been hoping to avoid. “It’s okay, Héctor,” she said, holding up her hands defensively and forcing herself to speak softly. “I’m not angry with you. _Cálmese_.”

He was frozen for a moment, still looking horrified, but tried to relax. Probably a difficult feat, given he was sprawled out on a hardwood floor.

Hesitating for a moment, Imelda stepped up closer to him, concerned when he tried to back away again. “I promise, Héctor, I’m _not_ angry,” she repeated, stooping down to lift him back onto the bed.

Immediately he stiffened, drawing in a sharp breath as she eased him back onto the bed, and she pulled her hands away quickly.  Of course, he’d been shocked when she’d jumped into his arms the night prior, and she couldn’t really blame him—given she’d yelled at him and swung her boot at him so many times before, it must still be strange to see her acting this way.

It felt strange for her, too.

Even so, she allowed herself a small smile. “ _Buenas tardes_ ,” she said. “How are you feeling, Héctor?”

“Uh… I’m…” Héctor bit his lip, his gaze darting around the room again before settling back on Imelda. “I, um… uh… w-wh—”

 _What happened?_ Imelda assumed he was trying to ask, and sighed. “A lot happened last night… But we sent Miguel home. He’s all right.” Watching his expression, she saw he only blinked a few times in response—it would probably hit him later. “After that… you were… flashing a lot, and then you passed out. I—we were all very worried about you. But Miguel… he must have helped Coco remember, because you stopped glowing soon after sunrise.”

Héctor’s brow furrowed as he looked off to the side, trying to process all of this.

“Don’t worry about it too much,” she said, and he gave an uncertain nod. “If Coco remembered you, she probably passed on your memories… so you’ll be okay. You don’t need to worry about disappearing anymore.”

“Th… that’s good,” he breathed, an awkward smile quirking at the edge of his mouth. “Wouldn’t, ah… want to go disappearing on you… so soon…?”

Well, he still had his sense of humor. She huffed out a quiet laugh. “You’re probably feeling a bit sore, too, aren’t you?”

He shifted around, drawing in a sharp breath when he moved his left leg, and settling stiffly back onto the bed. “I… m-must’ve taken a beating,” he stammered, his eyes flickering over his form under the sheets. He glanced at his right arm, frowning at the tape on it.

Again, that wasn’t particularly surprising—the way he’d been seizing up last night had looked terribly painful. “You’ll need to rest for a while,” Imelda said. “I can have Rosita go and pick up some painkillers for you, and maybe some proper splints for those broken bones. After that…” She paused, glancing aside, and saw him look back at her, still nervous. “You’re… free to stay here, until you get better.”

“A-ah, sorry, _perdoname_ , but where is ‘here’?” he asked.

That _did_ surprise her a little, especially given the fact that he sounded slightly… _desperate_ ? “You’re at my house, Héctor. All of my family lives here.” _All of_ our _family_ , something within her corrected, but it still didn’t feel _right_. She didn’t even know if he really wanted to be part of this family anymore.

“I… I see.” Héctor gave another smile, though an uneasy one. “It’s… a nice house?”

Imelda stared at him.

It wasn’t that the comment was entirely odd, but it was _off_. Given how much he’d been clinging to the idea that she still loved him, how many times he’d tried to talk to her before, she would’ve expected him to be ecstatic at being let into her house. Or… well, maybe he would be a little uneasy. But the way he was acting—it didn’t feel like the same kind of uncertainty she’d seen in him before—the uncertainty about whether or not she’d accept him again, or ever consider him family. This seemed more like… like…

Héctor laughed, and Imelda gave a start. Clearly he was trying to pass it off as a genuine laugh, but something about it felt very forced.

“ _Lo siento_ ,” he said, that unsettlingly _off_ grin tugging at his face. “I… it seems a lot has happened, and… _perdoname_ , I know this is rude, but I… seem to have forgotten your name.”

Imelda’s chest seized up, and the room around her was numbingly cold.

“ _What_?” she said, shocked at how soft her own voice was.

“Sorry!” he said, holding up his hands and wincing. “I-I’m very sorry, _señora_. I’m sure it will come back to me very soon! I… o-obviously a lot has happened! You said so yourself, _sí_?”

No, no, no. This couldn’t be right. This—had she fallen asleep? She must have. She must have fallen asleep, and was dreaming this. It had been a long night and a long day—one of the others would wake her up when something happened.

“Oh! Uh… I’m sorry, I know this is awkward. But don’t worry! I’ll… I mean, if you could just… tell it to me again, your name, I mean, I’m sure that would jog my memory, _sí_?”

He couldn’t have—it wasn’t possible. It wasn’t—

“ _Por favor_ , if you could—”

“ _Héctor_.”

Her voice was cold, colder even than she felt, and its effect was immediate.

He scrambled backward, his shoulder thudding into the headboard and his chest heaving. The smile was gone, replaced with a grimace, and he looked utterly terrified.

Good. He should be scared, he should be ashamed for—!

Keeping her back rigid, Imelda glared down at him, fighting to keep both her frame and her voice from shaking. “You are going to stop this nonsense _right_ now,” she said. “What are you doing, joking about this? Did you think I would find it funny, after all of that?”

“I-I-I— _no_!” he stammered. His bones, still loosely held together, were clattering as his entire body shook. “I-I promise, I’m not lying! _Lo siento_ , I didn’t mean to forget, d-don’t hurt me, _por favor…_!”

As quickly as her anger had taken over her, it fled, and she staggered back. “You… really don’t remember…” The cold numbness was growing more intense, taking hold of her bones.

“I-I’ll try to, I promise!” And that awful, awful _smile_ was back, she couldn’t stand it—

Whirling around, Imelda started toward the door.

“ _Señora—_!”

“Y-you need to rest,” she choked out, and rushed out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Immediately she regretted shutting the door so hard, but her feet were already carrying her away from the room, down the stairs, past the questioning looks of her family.

“Mamá Imelda?”

“Imelda, what happened?”

“Wait, is she—?”

“Imelda, what did he say?”

Imelda ignored all of them as she marched out of the house and into the courtyard where she found Pepita, pacing and agitated. Immediately her _alebrije_ looked up at her and closed the distance between them. With a throaty purr, Pepita lay down and spread one of her wings, inviting Imelda to her side.

Without hesitating she fell against the soft warmth of Pepita’s fur, burying her face as the _alebrije_ covered her with the wing, shielding her from the concerned eyes of her family as she broke down.She’d never thought anything could hurt more than the realization she’d had years ago, when she realized Héctor was not coming home—when she knew that she’d lost him.

Now she finally had him back… and he didn’t even know her name.

 

* * *

 

Once he was certain the skeleton woman wasn’t coming back, he let himself fall back into the bed.

What in heaven was going _on_?

It certainly wasn’t a dream, he knew that much for sure--dreams didn’t hurt _this_ much. Or at least, he was pretty sure they didn’t. Had it not been for the constant pain in his arm and leg and everywhere else, he would have been quite content to assume he was dreaming.

Funny, though. He couldn’t remember ever dreaming before this… or remember anything else, for that matter.

Waking up to find that he was a skeleton—and an injured one, at that—was terrifying enough, and he was still reeling from it. But then that other skeleton had come into the room as if it was all perfectly normal, then had gone on like they knew each other, and needed no introduction, and there was all that about… glowing? Flashing? Disappearing? Someone named Miguel? And… Coco?

There was something about that last name that stuck out to him—though he wasn’t sure _what_ —and he filed it away as something _vaguely_ familiar. Possibly. Maybe. Or maybe it was just a name he liked or— _dios_. Part of him wished he’d asked, but given the way that skeleton had reacted to the fact that he couldn’t remember _her_ , he wasn’t sure he wanted to know how she would react to _that_.

She’d been so upset, so angry, and… and hurt? Had he been close to her? He didn’t know, he didn’t _know_ —!

His breathing picked up again, chest heaving (did he even need to do that? did skeletons have to breathe?), and he forced himself to calm down. _It’s okay, it’s okay,_ he told himself, though he knew good and well that he was a liar, and a bad one at that.

…Okay, that was one thing he knew—he was a bad liar. That was… that was something. That was getting somewhere, right? What else did he know?

His name was… Héctor? That’s what the skeleton had called him, and that sounded about right. Yeah, he’d go with that. His name was Héctor, and he was a skeleton for some reason. He felt like he shouldn’t be one—like he should be… human? He was pretty sure he should be human, though he didn’t know what he looked like as one. But it felt right… so why was he a skeleton? Had he become cursed? But that one woman was a skeleton as well… Were they… was he…

Was he _dead_?

The thought brought chills to him (how could he feel cold when he didn’t have skin?), but he could think of no other possibility, other than the curse thing, and he didn’t _remember_ being cursed.

 _Then again, you don’t remember much,_ amigo _. That’s not much of a help._

What else… he was at the skeleton woman’s house, and the rest of her family was here. Were they skeletons, too? If they weren’t, then he’d know for sure he was cursed. But if they were, then…

 _Dead…_ was he really… could he really be dead? How had he died?

The thought made him want to curl up on himself, but the second he tried, he immediately regretted it as a sharp pain shot through his left leg. _Ay—!_ Okay, so he had a broken leg, too. And a broken arm. And maybe some broken ribs, too? And he was pretty sure none of them had been treated properly. (How do you treat a _skeleton_?! She’d mentioned splints?)

And… and that was about it. He was a skeleton named Héctor who was also a bad liar, a lot of stuff had gone on recently, he’d broken some bones, he was either dead or cursed, and he was staying at this woman’s house with her family. That was all he knew.

That and the name Coco. Still that name stuck out to him—it felt important, somehow, so he would try to remember that one.

And then… there was that skeleton woman…

Now that he thought about it, there was something familiar about her—like he’d heard her voice somewhere before. Especially when it was angry. Great… that could only mean good things.

He rubbed his forehead, only to flinch at the strange feeling of hard bone against bone. But no—she couldn’t be someone who just… hated him, could she? She _had_ spoken kindly to him, too, and helped him back onto the bed when he’d fallen. Not to mention, she was letting him stay at her house, and was apparently willing to look after him. And when he’d admitted that he couldn’t remember her, she’d seemed… more than just angry, she was hurt… _heartbroken_?

The thought made his heart (did he still have a— _? ay_ , forget it) ache as well _,_ though he couldn’t place why. Whatever the case was, seeing her so upset didn’t sit right with him. He needed to talk with her.

He needed to talk with someone, at any rate.

As if on cue, the door creaked open and two identical skulls poked into the room. He gave a start, but forced himself to stay calm. _Okay, definitely dead, then._

The twins stepped inside, one of them shutting the door behind them, and fidgeted for a moment before one of them spoke up:

“Héctor… What did you say to—”

“—Imelda? She was very upset.”

So _that_ was her name. His phantom heart leapt when he noticed that it stood out to him, much like _Coco_.

This was good. This was something.

He could do this.

“ _Hola_ ,” he said with an uneasy smile, and ignored the glance the twins exchanged. “I can tell you in just a moment, but first, I need to ask a few questions…”


	3. Panic Attack (Miguel, Enrique, Luisa)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY so I know I said that I would be updating _Neither Can You_ next. About that--the next chapter is finished being written, but it's still being beta read. So it'll still be out soon! Just give me a little bit longer.
> 
> Thanks to Jaywings and Doodle for beta-reading this one for me. I kinda had to fudge this a bit since I think this is more of a flashback then a panic attack, but still.
> 
> Prompt: Panic Attack  
> Characters: Miguel, Enrique, Luisa, post-movie

“Geez, I haven’t gone swimming in so long!”

“Me either! The… the river is safe though, right, guys? It’s not gonna… flood, is it?”

“ _Pffft_! Yeah, Antonio! It totally looks like there’s gonna be a downpour that’ll flood the river, what with all the sunshine.”

“Yeah, Félix is right. Besides, my parents wouldn’t let us go if it weren’t safe.”

“Right, Miguel, that’s why your cousin had to come along.”

Miguel rolled his eyes as Félix snickered. “C’mon, Rosa already teased me about that…”

“I’m just messing,” Félix replied, grinning down at him. “You turn thirteen next month, right? Then you’ll be old enough to come down here by yourself.”

“I _hope_ so!” Abel said, hefting up the large case he was carrying. “Then I can stop babysitting you guys.”

As they made their way out of the village and toward the river, Antonio looked back in curiosity before shuffling closer to Miguel. “What’s that Abel has anyway?” he whispered, a little too loud.

Brightening, Abel picked up his pace to walk next to the kids. “It’s my accordion! I’m gonna practice while you guys splash around.”

“ _What_?” Félix leaned closer to get a better look at the case. “Since when do _other_ people in your family play music, Miguel?!”

“Since the ban was lifted?” Miguel shrugged. “Music’s in our blood! I’m not the only one who likes it.”

“You guys are crazy,” Félix said with a grin.

Laughing, Miguel returned the smile and looked ahead toward their destination. School had only just gotten out a few weeks ago, but life in the Rivera household had been hectic regardless, with Miguel helping take care of his new baby sister, and absolutely everyone getting involved in settling the legal disputes about Papá Héctor’s guitar and the stolen songs. And on top of all that…

A coldness settled over him as he recalled the nightmares he kept having—usually about things like falling from a great height, or seeing Papá Héctor start flashing and seizing up, or seeing his bones show through his flesh again… At least once every week or so he would find himself waking up in a panic, not sure if he had awoken in the Land of the Dead, or if Papá Héctor was okay, or if the curse had come back. But every time he woke up, Dante would immediately be at his side, licking his face and sitting with him until he calmed down. Sometimes even a scrawny tabby cat—who he was pretty sure was actually Pepita—would be laying next to his chest, purring up a storm.

So far his parents hadn’t found out about the nightmares, and he’d rather keep it that way. His mamá and papá had been helping him a lot with the music stuff, and they were really busy taking care of Socorro, too—he didn’t want them to think he was getting upset over some dumb bad dreams. The nightmares weren’t real, and everything was okay now.

…Though they still made him feel scared, sometimes. Every so often he’d find himself checking his arm to make sure he wasn’t seeing bone, and a few times he’d sent Dante out with a short letter to Papá Héctor, just to make sure he was still doing okay. He knew he was just being dumb, but he wished he’d stop being so… stressed out about this, or whatever.

Which is why he was really glad to finally have a day where he could just goof off with his friends. It’d been way too long.

“I can see it!” Antonio shouted, yanking Miguel out of his thoughts.

“Race you there!” And immediately Félix took off running full speed toward the river, already yanking off his tank top as he did so.

Miguel almost ran after him when Antonio tugged on the back of his shirt. “Just wait,” he said. “He can jump in first and see if the water’s too cold.”

“Good idea!” Grinning, Miguel bolted after Félix, keeping his body bent slightly forward and his palms flat so he could run faster.

“W-wait! But I said—”

“We can still race him!” Miguel called over his shoulder, and sure enough Antonio was soon at his heels.

“Be careful!” came Abel’s voice from a short distance back. “I don’t wanna have to fish you guys out!”

Up ahead, Miguel saw Félix still charging toward the river, but already he was getting closer. If he focused just a bit more…!

Sure enough he wound up neck-and-neck with his friend, who turned to look at him, startled. His surprise caused him to slow down just enough for Miguel to get ahead, putting him in the lead. There was the river, a stone’s throw away, and…!

Miguel came to a stumbling halt right at the river’s edge, staring into the water. He only registered the fact that Félix had jumped in when he felt the water splash against him, and gave a start, stumbling back.

“Hey, you still did it!” Antonio was gasping for air as he stumbled up to Miguel and looked down at Félix. “How’s the water feel?”

“Feels fine, if you’re not too much of a wimp to jump in.”

“We’re not wimps! Are we Miguel? …Miguel?”

“Huh?” Miguel shook his head, snapping out of his daze. “Uhh… no! O-of course… not.” Hesitantly he looked back down at the water, but something held him back, which was ridiculous. He’d been in this river before, and it wasn’t scary. Maybe a little if you lost your footing on a rock or something, but he knew how to swim. But then, the last time he’d had to swim was…

No, no, that was dumb. It wasn’t like this was that _cenote_ or anything. This was just the river, and Félix was swimming in it just fine. He’d come here to have fun. There was nothing bad or scary here.

“Then what’re you waiting for? C’mon!” Félix tossed up his arm, splashing water at both Miguel and Antonio. “Think _La Llorona_ ’s gonna come get you or something?”

Antonio was hurriedly slipping out of his tank top while kicking off his sandals. “We’re coming! C’mon, Miguel.”

Fidgeting with the hem of his tank top, Miguel watched his younger friend cautiously slip into the river. He wasn’t pulled under, nothing was trying to grab him, he wasn’t struggling to stay afloat… There was nothing to be afraid of, and Antonio was always more nervous about stuff than he was. So what was he so scared about?

“Miguel?”

 _Stop being stupid,_ he thought, carefully pulling off his sandals and setting them aside. _There’s nothing to be scared of!_ But telling himself that wasn’t doing much for his nerves…

That’s when he remembered— _You’ve got to loosen up. Shake out those nerves!_

Miguel shook himself the way he remembered Papá Héctor doing. After tossing his shirt aside, he took a breath and charged toward the bank, leaping into the river with the best _grito_ he could manage.

Water splashed all around him, and he began to flail until he heard his friends cheering at either side of him. Even though his nerves weren’t entirely gone, he felt better. Félix and Antonio were already splashing each other and occasionally dipping below the surface to see what they could find, and back on the shore, Abel had his accordion out and was practicing _The World Es Mi Familia_.

It was a sunny, hot, cloudless day, the water was nice, and as Miguel joined in on his friend’s games, he finally began to relax.

As the boys played and goofed around over the next hour or so, Miguel found himself forgetting even why he’d been so scared to join in in the first place. And yet… even then, he still felt something nagging at the back of his mind, a fear of some kind tugging at his heart, but he did his best to ignore it.

“…and then, _Luchador_ Félix goes for his final move!”

_SPLASH!_

Miguel successfully swam out of the way as Félix lunged into the water, but Antonio wasn’t so lucky. “Aaagh, get o—” His words turned to gargling as the older boy tugged him underwater. He only held him under for a few seconds before surfacing again, and Antonio coughed and sputtered.

“ _VICTORY_!” Félix exclaimed as Antonio made a face at him and Miguel began cracking up.

Wiping his hair out of his face, Antonio pouted at Miguel. “That wasn’t funny!”

“Yeah it was!” Miguel faked flailing and splashing around in the water, doing his best impression of his friend. “‘Aaaah! Get offfff— _glubglubglub_ …”

“That’s not what I sounded like!”

Félix snickered, swimming back away from Antonio and closer to Miguel. “Yeah, you’re right. It sounded more like— _THIS_!” And without warning he spun around, grabbing Miguel by the shoulders and shoving him under the surface of the water.

He couldn’t breathe.

He felt himself plunge into the water, but the guitar had filled with water so quickly he couldn’t surface. Struggling, he tried to get the guitar off of his back, but couldn’t find the strap, he couldn’t find it, he had to get above the surface, he was going to drown, he was going to drown—

The sound of the water was roaring in his ears and he couldn’t tell if he had surfaced or not—he was coughing and choking so he must have but he couldn’t breathe, he had to get out of the pool, he couldn’t breathe—

Strong hands grasped his shoulders, and he screamed.

“ _N_ _O! NO—_ ” He began to cough again, his throat hurt, it burned, he couldn’t breathe, and _Señor_ de la Cruz was still pulling at him— “ _NO_! LET ME GO! LET ME _GO_!”

“Miguel, _stop!_ ”

Ernesto’s voice didn’t sound right but he wasn’t letting go, and Miguel kicked with all his might, tugging at his arms, thrashing, trying everything he had to get away. “LET ME GO! _PLEASE_ , _SEÑOR_! I-I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I-I just need the blessing, I won’t tell anyone, I-I just want to go home, _please_!”

More shouting—something about someone getting help—Ernesto must have been calling for his guards, he was going to go back into the _cenote_ , no no no—!

“NO! Don’t put me back there! No! I promise I won’t tell, please—!”

“M-Miguel, stop it, no one’s putting you anywhere, you have to calm down!”

He couldn’t calm down, he didn’t want to go back into the _cenote_ , he wanted to go home, he just wanted to go home…

“ _Ruff, arf—owowooooooo_!”

The howling wasn’t echoed like it should have been, but he heard it nonetheless, and he could hear the sound of clawed feet scrambling against the ground. “D-Dante…?!”

In moments Dante was jumping at him, whining and licking his face. Miguel clung to the dog like a lifeline, shivering in spite of the warmth Dante provided, and the world gradually came back into focus. His heart was hammering in his chest, and his throat felt rough and sore as his chest heaved. He could feel the sun on his back, already starting to dry him off, and the grass beneath his legs. He wasn’t in the _cenote_ , or the pool, or the river.

…He hadn’t been in the _cenote_ or the pool. Those were an entire world away… and so was Ernesto.

Nearby, he could feel the gazes of a few people—Abel, and either Félix or Antonio, he wasn’t sure. Cringing, he pulled closer to Dante, trying to avoid looking at either of them.

“Miguel?!”

Immediately he recognized the voice of his papá, and looked up to see Enrique running toward him and carrying a towel.

“ _Ay, gracias a dios_ ,” Papá muttered, stooping down to wrap Miguel in the towel. “What happened?”

“F-Félix pushed him under the water,” Antonio stammered, shifting around somewhere on the bank.

“He was all flailing around!” Even though Abel was behind him, Miguel could hear the gestures he was making. “I pulled him out, but he kept shouting—”

“I-I’m okay, Papá,” Miguel sniffled, using a corner of the towel to wipe at his face. He wasn’t sure where Félix was, but he was glad he wasn’t here to see him like this. Though he’d already seen him splashing and screaming when nothing had been wrong, and…

Papá pulled him into a hug and lifted him into his arms. “I was worried about you, _mijo_ ,” he said, brushing Miguel’s hair out of his face. “Do you want to go home?”

Nothing was really wrong and it was dumb for him to be crying and there was no real reason he shouldn’t just go back to playing with his friends, but he still found himself nodding anyway.

“All right. Let’s go home.”

As Papá carried him, Miguel heard Dante trotting after them, as well as two other sets of footfalls. Risking a look back, he saw Antonio looking up at him in worry. Suddenly Miguel remembered what had gotten him into this situation to begin with, and looked away. “S-sorry for laughing at you.”

“It’s okay,” Antonio replied, and gave an awkward laugh. “I-I probably did sound kinda funny, there.”

Miguel smiled, but didn’t say anything after that, and no one said anything on the way back to town.

 

* * *

 

 

After what felt like an eternity later, Miguel found himself huddled on his bed in dry clothes, Dante lying next to him with his head in his lap. Miguel instinctively ran his hand over Dante’s wrinkly skin, occasionally scratching him behind the ears. Outside, he could hear the voices of different family members, talking too softly for him to make out what they were saying. The deepest voice was Abel, who had a weirdly anxious quality to his voice.

Miguel could only imagine what he was telling them.

“I didn’t want them to know, Dante,” he muttered, and Dante’s ears perked up, tail thumping against the bed at the sound of his name. “What am I supposed to tell them?”

Dante’s only response was to lick his hand. Frowning, Miguel wiped the dog spit onto his quilt and leaned back against his pillow. “I guess you don’t know, either.”

Another voice spoke up, sharper and angrier than the others— _Abuelita_. Oh great, Abel told her, too?

“…if someone touched him then I’ll—!”

“ _Mamá, shhhh_.”

Oh no, was Félix in trouble now…?! Miguel winced at the mental image of his friend being struck by a shoe. Yeah, he was a little mad at Félix for doing that to him, but he wouldn’t want _Abuelita_ going after him. Félix would probably never want to talk to him again!

Seeming to sense Miguel’s distress, Dante whined and snuggled closer. Not knowing what else to do, Miguel sat up, wrapping his arms around the dog’s body.

_Knock, knock._

Dante barked, hopping off the bed and pawing at the door. At first Miguel wanted to call him back and tell whoever was at the door that he was trying to sleep, but… Dante was his spirit guide, wasn’t he? Maybe he wanted Miguel to let them in.

“Come in,” he said, rubbing his arm as he sat cross-legged on the bed.

The door creaked open, and Dante bolted out. Once the dog was out of the way, Miguel’s parents stepped in and shut the door. Socorro must be with one of his _tías_ , he thought.

“ _¿Estas bien, mijo?_ ” Mamá asked. She took a seat beside him, placing a hand on his back.

“ _Sí,_ Mamá,” he said, leaning into her. “I’m okay now. Félix just scared me, is all.” When Papá moved to sit next to him, he suddenly sat upright. “Oh! Tell _Abuelita_ that she doesn’t need to be mad at Félix! W-we were just playing too rough. He… I wish he hadn’t pushed me under like that, but he didn’t mean to scare me.”

“Félix isn’t in trouble,” Papá said with a shake of his head. “But…”

Oh no, here it comes. “I-I’m okay, really!” He held up his hands, grinning in what he hoped was a reassuring way. “I shouldn’t have even been that scared, I mean, I’ve gotten dunked before, a-and the river was safe, there was nothing really wrong, I was just—”

“ _Shhh, mijo_.” Mamá rubbed her hand on his back, and he sighed.

Feeling his papá’s gaze on him, Miguel looked at him, stomach sinking at the worry on his face. It didn’t help when Papá finally spoke up: “Abel… told us you were shouting some things.”

Oh, right, he’d been shouting when Abel must have pulled him out. He’d thought Abel was Ernesto, and… oh. “Um… y-yeah, I was,” he said, rubbing his arm uneasily. “I was just freaking out and yelling, that’s all.”

Papá didn’t look convinced, nor did Mamá. “He said you were shouting at someone that you wanted to go home, and that you wouldn’t tell about something.”

Miguel chewed on his lip; how was he supposed to explain any of this? He hadn’t told them about his adventure in the Land of the Dead, and he knew they wouldn’t believe him if he did. They’d probably tell him to stop making up stories, and to stop getting so scared of stupid bad dreams, and…

“Miguel…” Papá drew in a breath, looking him in the eye. “Did something happen, when you ran off on the Day of the Dead?”

Miguel tensed, and his mamá resumed rubbing his back. “It’s okay,” she said. “You can tell us anything. We won’t be mad.”

His heart was pounding and he felt very, very sick to his stomach.

It wasn’t even like everything that had happened that night was _bad_. He’d gotten to meet the rest of his family, and he’d saved Papá Héctor, and played music with him, and brought him back to the family… And even now, he was sneaking messages over to his great-great-grandpa through Dante, and he got to talk with his family that way. And he’d brought music back to the family! So many good things had happened!

But… the bad things kept sticking to him, and he didn’t know _why_. He wished he’d stop having nightmares about falling, and the water, and de la Cruz, and… and how would they believe any of that?

“Miguel?”

Drawing in a deep breath, Miguel shut his eyes. He couldn’t tell them about the Land of the Dead. There was no way they’d listen. But… he felt like he had to tell them something. They probably weren’t going to leave him alone until he did. Maybe…

“W-well… wh-when I ran off, um…” He looked up, seeing his parents nodding for him to continue, and swallowed. “I… I went to the cemetery, to get the guitar.”

“Why did you go there?”

“B-because I wanted to play in the plaza, but I didn’t… didn’t have an instrument. So I thought…” He shook his head—that part wasn’t important. “Wh-when I got to the cemetery, I… I got scared, because I thought I saw ghosts.”

His mother laughed softly as she brushed her hand through his hair. “Maybe you were seeing the ancestors coming to visit.”

 _That’s_ exactly _what I saw_ , Miguel thought, but didn’t say it. “I heard you calling for me… but um, I guess I was so freaked out that I just tried to get away.”

“We were looking for you all night,” Papá said, and Miguel was relieved that there was no anger in his voice. It had been over half a year since it had happened, anyway. “How long were you running around there, without us spotting you?”

“Did someone…” His mamá hesitated. “Did someone grab you at the cemetery?”

“Huh? No!” Miguel gave them a bewildered look. “No, I mean… the guy at de la Cruz’s grave was looking for me, I think, but I just ran away from him. No one grabbed me.” Not in the Land of the Living, anyway. No one _could_. “I did feel really bad about breaking into there though.”

For some reason his parents seemed relieved. He wasn’t sure why, but he wouldn’t complain.

“So you ran away from the cemetery?” Papá’s brow furrowed. “Where did you go?”

“I… I ran around to a lot of places! And I was thinking about… about why our family banned music, and uh… how I’d said I wanted to be left off the ofrenda.” Knowing what he knew now, the thought still made him feel awful. Poor Héctor had tried _everything_ to get back onto their _ofrenda_ , while he’d said he didn’t care if he was on one or not. “I… I felt really bad about everything. And I knew I had to come home.”

“Did anything else happen?”

Miguel frowned. A lot else had happened, but nothing his parents would understand. But… “Well… wh-when I was trying to get home, I wound up… falling into the water.” He didn’t specify _what_ water, so it wasn’t really a lie, was it? “And I got really, really scared, and I thought I’d never make it home!”

“Is that why you were so scared in the river?” Mamá asked, and he nodded.

“Yeah, it… reminded me of when I’d fallen in,” he muttered, and shifted around uncomfortably.

His parents looked at each other for a moment before looking back at him. “Is there something else you need to tell us?” Papá asked.

Tensing, Miguel began rubbing his arm again. “It’s… really dumb.”

“ _Mijo_ , if it’s bothering you, it’s not dumb.” His mamá pulled him to her side again, rubbing his shoulder. “You can tell us.”

Looking back at his papá, who nodded at him, he sighed. No use hiding it now. “It’s just… I-I’ve been… having bad dreams. About that night.” There, he’d said it, and he squeezed his eyes shut. “I know it’s dumb—I know they’re not real, and everything’s okay, but I keep dreaming about falling, and the water, and about S— _ghosts_ , and it’s really stupid, and—”

To his surprise, his papá embraced him, and his mamá did the same. “That’s not stupid at all,” Papá said. “That night had _all_ of us scared.”

“And you’re not the only one who has nightmares about it.”

Miguel jerked away from his parents, looking at them wide-eyed. “Wh- _what_?”

Papá and Mamá both looked at each other sadly. “We both get nightmares about that night,” his papá explained. “We have bad dreams about you running off, and we can’t find you again.”

Miguel shook his head. “B-but I’m right here! I’m not gonna run off again!”

“We know, _mijo_ , and your papá and I are both very glad about that. But sometimes when something scares you a lot, you have nightmares about it for a long time.”

“And sometimes we get scared when stuff reminds us of those things,” Papá went on. “When Félix ran into the workshop and told us something had happened to you, all I could think of was when you ran away, and we couldn’t find you.”

“You’re not dumb for having bad dreams, or getting scared if something reminds you of something bad. That happens to everyone, _mijo_.” Once again, his mamá brushed his hair out of his face. “You can tell us whenever bad dreams are bothering you, or if you feel scared. We won’t be mad.”

Miguel had no idea what to say, but he felt like a weight had been lifted from his chest. They weren’t worried about what had happened to him anymore, and they weren’t telling him he was too old to still be having nightmares, and…

Feeling his mamá’s thumb brush across his cheek, he looked up at her. He realized now that his breathing had quickened, and he wasn’t really sure when he’d started crying. Frantically he wiped at his tears, sniffling. “I-I’m sorry I scared you,” he said. “I didn’t mean… I-I never want to run away again…!”

“ _Shhh_ , it’s okay. We’ll be okay, _mijo_ , and you’ll be okay, too. We promise, we won’t be mad at you if you’re scared. You can always tell us anything you need.”

“ _G-gracias_ , Mamá.” Miguel buried his face into his mother’s side, sniffling, and didn’t object when he felt his papá’s hand on his back.

He wasn’t sure when he would try to tell them about what really happened that night, or if he ever would. He also still didn’t fully understand why he was still scared about stuff that couldn’t hurt him anymore.

But he knew his family was there for him, and for now, that was enough.


	4. Caught in a Storm (Héctor, Coco, Imelda)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya folks! Thanks to Jaywings and Tomatosoupful for beta-reading this one for me.
> 
> This one's a bit fluffier than the others. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Prompt: Caught in a Storm  
> Characters: Héctor, Coco, and Imelda, pre-movie

“Mamá! _Mamá_!”

“Not now, Coco. Mamá is busy.”

“Mamaaaa…!”

Héctor looked up from his songbook, pencil in mouth, to see his daughter tugging at Imelda’s dress. His wife was in the middle of drawing water from the well near their house—a task she’d always insisted on doing on her own—and he’d stepped outside to be with her, bringing Coco with him so she could run around the yard.

It felt like just yesterday that Coco had learned to walk, and it still warmed Héctor’s heart to think of her taking her first steps toward him and Imelda. It had felt like such a wonderful moment at the time—and it still was!—but at the same time… well. Everyone else in town had warned them that as hard as taking care of a baby was, having a baby that could _walk_ would make things much, much harder.

As it turned out, they weren’t wrong.

Coco seemed to have a knack for toddling on her little legs straight into trouble, getting into things she shouldn’t, wandering off when they looked away for two seconds… and, currently, bothering Imelda when she was in the middle of something. Right now, she was tugging repeatedly on Imelda, who was struggling to focus on her task. And on top of that, the little girl’s voice was growing shrill. “Mamamamamamammamama—!”

“ _¡Ay!_ ” Imelda cried, heaving up the bucket of water and setting it on the ground. “Coco, _not now_!”

Immediately Coco’s face scrunched up as she began to whine, stomping her foot—signs of an oncoming tantrum.

Quickly slipping his book into his pocket and sticking his pencil behind his ear, Héctor hopped up from his spot on the nearby bench and hurried up to his daughter. “ _Shhh_ , _shh_ , Coco, let’s not bother Mamá right now,” he said, crouching down to meet her gaze. “She’s working very hard.”

Coco continued to whine, stomping her feet. “No! Nooo!”

Looking up at Imelda, Héctor bit his lip to see her rubbing her forehead. “Would you like some help with that, _mi amor_?” he asked. “I can take the water in, and—”

“No, it’s not that,” she said with a sigh. “I just… have a headache right now.”

“Oooh, a headache, huh?” Héctor rose to his full height, wrapped an arm around his wife, and drew her closer to place a kiss on her forehead. “Better?”

Imelda laughed softly, resting her head against his chest. “A little.”

“Mamá! Ma _maaaaaaa_!” And Coco was back to tugging at her mother’s dress.

Feeling his wife sigh against him, Héctor leaned his head against hers. “Go in and get some rest, Imelda,” he murmured. “I’ll take Coco for a little trip around town, eh? Get all the grumpiness out of her before we go home.”

“ _Gracias, mi amor._ ” Imelda pulled away from him, but stood up on her toes to give him a light kiss on the lips. Even the small gesture was enough to send him reeling—he nearly missed her stooping down to kiss their daughter on the cheek. “Mamá is going to take a nap. You be a good girl for your papá, okay?”

“No! _Noooo_!”

Sighing, Imelda stood back up, patting Héctor on the shoulder. “Papá will take you out to play, _right_?”

“Eh?” Shaking himself out of his blissful daze, he looked down to see Coco pouting up at him. “Oh—OH! _Sí_ , Imelda! Go on and rest, now.” He drew his wife into one last hug before she playfully pushed him away.

While she went to bring the water inside, Héctor knelt down again to Coco’s level. “Your Mamá is very tired, Coco, and whining isn’t going to make her want to play with you.”

Coco whined anyway, stomping her feet and pouting at him.

Putting a hand to his chin and rubbing his thin goatee, Héctor studied his daughter seriously. “Now, what’s with that look?” He almost commented on just how much of Imelda was in that expression, but decided against it while she was still in earshot. “What sort of face is that to be making?”

“No!” Coco cried, and Héctor nearly laughed. Right now, that was the only word she knew that would allow her to express disapproval.

“ _Mira_ , _mira_ , Coco, Papá can make that face, too!” He then pouted in a similar manner to Coco, furrowing his brow and sticking his lower lip out.

An unmistakable look of confusion crossed his daughter’s face before she resumed glaring, and began pushing on his knee. “Noooo!”

“No?” Héctor reared back, adopting a look of mock confusion. “Am I doing this wrong? _A ver, a ver…_ how about _this_?” He then leaned forward again, pouting in an even more exaggerated manner.

That utterly baffled look returned to Coco’s face, along with a glimmer of amusement in her eyes, and Héctor knew his plan was working. Even so, she tried to keep pouting, and gave his knee another shove. “No!”

“No? All right. How about… _this_!” Once again, Héctor put on the most exaggerated pout he possibly could, leaning in close to Coco. It was a close battle, but not quite enough—she was still struggling to keep up her bad mood, fighting to keep from smiling. That was it—time for his secret weapon!

Héctor pouted at Coco for a few more seconds, and crossed his eyes.

The effect was immediate—Coco burst into giggles, all traces of her bad mood finally gone.

“ _There’s_ my little _angelita_!” he exclaimed, laughing right with her.

“Again, again!” she cried, and Héctor obliged her, crossing his eyes and sending her into another fit of giggles. This went on for another minute or so, before Héctor stood up, rubbing his eyes.

“ _Ay_ , that’s enough of that now, Coco,” he said, still chuckling. “I need to see straight if I want to take you to the plaza!”

Clapping her hands and cheering, Coco followed him as he strode up to the bench he’d been sitting at earlier to pick up his old guitar. He slung the worn guitar strap over his shoulder and grinned down at Coco, reaching down to take her hand. “Want to go see what Tío Ernesto’s up to?”

“‘Nesto!” Coco exclaimed, putting her hand in her papá’s.

With that, Héctor led Coco out through the gate and into the street. It wasn’t exactly a sunshiny day, and perhaps it was a little humid, but it was still perfectly fine weather, so in all likelihood Ernesto was out in the plaza and playing for tips, as usual. He’d probably be happy to see him, especially with Coco coming along too. They would play a few songs together while watching Coco and generally have a good time.

But to his surprise, when they reached the plaza, there was no sign of Ernesto playing anywhere. Héctor frowned, looking around to see if his _hermano_ was off flirting with one of the girls that ran the fruit cart instead of playing his guitar, but no—he simply wasn’t around. Not only that, but the plaza wasn’t terribly busy, either. That was… odd.

“Papá?” Coco tugged at his hand, looking around the plaza curiously.

Héctor frowned. He could still sit and play guitar anyway, but even if a crowd came to watch, he couldn’t play by himself and watch Coco at the same time—she’d wander off. But they couldn’t go back home, either—even though she was in a better mood now, Coco would try to wake Imelda up for sure.

Looking down at her, he rubbed his chin in thought. “Hmm, looks like your _tío_ isn’t here, _mija_ ,” he said, and she looked up at him. “What do you say we go somewhere else?”

Coco stared at him for a moment, then tugged her hand out of his and reached up toward him. “Up?”

He nodded, stooping down and scooping her up in one arm and holding her on his hip. “All right. Ready to go?”

“ _¡Sí!_ ”

Carefully shifting his grip on his daughter, Héctor turned away from the plaza, heading for the edges of the town instead. There was a nice little spot just past the gates where he and Ernesto used to go play guitar or write songs. (Well, Héctor did most of the writing, but Ernesto at least _tried_ to help.) It wasn’t too far away, it would be nice and peaceful, and he could easily keep Coco from running off there.

The trip through town was mostly uneventful, save one moment when Coco tried to squirm away from him to go after a stray silver tabby cat. It had crossed their path and hissed at them before running past them in the opposite direction. Héctor had no idea what that had been about, but there was no way he was going to let Coco run after some filthy stray.

Once they were out of town, it was a short trek up to the hill. (And thank goodness for that—between his daughter and his guitar, Héctor’s back was starting to ache.) Once they reached the top, he set Coco down, groaning. “ _Ay_ , you’re getting waaaay too big for me to carry, _mija_ ,” he said, slinging his guitar off his shoulder and straightening his back with an audible _crack_. “But here we are!”

Coco looked around the hill—it wasn’t terribly high, and sported a couple trees at the top for shade—but seemed happy enough. Immediately she rushed over to see what was on the other side of the trees.

Héctor set his guitar down against the tree and followed Coco as she toddled around. But when Coco looked back and saw him following her, she let out a giggle and started to run. Grinning, Héctor gave chase, walking a little slower than he normally would have in order to stay right behind her, and holding out his hands like claws. He made a growling noise, and Coco let out a shriek, followed by more laughter.

They kept up the chase for a few minutes before Héctor finally swooped down to grab his daughter, picking her up and spinning her around before kissing her face repeatedly with exaggerated “ _mwah_ ” sounds. Coco was laughing the whole time, and a bit more willing to sit still by the time he finally set her down. He then stooped down to pick up his guitar and sling it over his shoulder. “How about some _música_ , _mija_?”

Coco bounced where she sat. “Poco Loco!”

“That one? All right!” Letting out an exaggerated _grito_ , he started playing the song, dancing around his daughter as he played.

And so they spent a good half-hour or so enjoying music together, with Héctor playing her any song she wanted and Coco occasionally hopping up to dance with him. Héctor felt like his heart would burst every time she tried to sing along—she would grow up singing songs with him and Imelda, and he couldn’t wait to see what kind of beautiful voice she would have when she grew older. For now, though, he would keep appreciating the little moments like this.

Gradually Héctor’s voice grew tired, but so did Coco as her bounciness began to wane—she was starting to nod off.  Héctor heaved a sigh, wishing he’d brought a canteen of water with him, but it didn’t matter all that much. With Coco tired out, now, they should probably start home. “Ready for a nap, _mija_?”

Coco, now seated toward the edge of the hill and looking up at him, yawned widely. But suddenly she blinked, slapping her left hand against her right arm, as though she’d been bitten.

Concerned, Héctor stepped closer to see what happened when he felt it, too—the faint splash of a raindrop directly on his nose. “Whoops. We should get home.” Quickly he slung his guitar onto his back, and stooped down to pick up Coco. Already the rain was picking up, more and more drops hitting him and showing no signs of slowing down. He could even hear the hollow _plunks_ as they fell onto his guitar—

_His guitar!_

“No, no no no,” he muttered, his heart hammering in sudden panic. That’s why Ernesto wasn’t out in the plaza—he didn’t want to get his guitar caught in the rain and risk ruining it, but Héctor hadn’t even been thinking about the weather.

Coco whined, tugging at his shirt, and a worse fear struck Héctor. What if Coco got sick in this rain, and…?!

“It’s okay, it’s okay, _mija_ ,” he whispered to her, carefully making his way down the hill. “Papá will get you home.” He just had to get down this hill, and the town wasn’t that far away, and—

His foot caught on a particularly slick patch of grass, and he nearly tumbled. _No, no no, don’t fall, don’t—!_ Fighting to keep from crashing forward, he overbalanced and fell hard on his backside. “Agh—!”

“ _Papá_!” Coco cried in alarm, clinging to him harder. But she was okay, it was all right—she was just scared, not hurt.

“I’m okay, it’s okay,” he said quickly, carefully pushing himself up to his feet to get down the rest of the hill. There were a few moments where he nearly slid again, but he finally managed to make it down to the bottom of the hill. At that point, the rain was already splashing over the both of them in great big drops, but at least the worst was over. _Agh,_ estúpido _—why didn’t you think about this? Why didn’t you pay attention to the weather?!_

Coco was whining again, and goodness she was heavy, but Héctor ran as fast as he could back toward the town’s gates. He just needed to get home, and he knew Santa Cecilia like the back of his hand. He could get home fast, he could do this…!

Charging through the rain and trying to get past the slick grass, he finally made it to the gates of Santa Cecilia. But now the rain was even worse, having gone from large drops to a near-solid wall of water. Squinting, he tried to see as he hurried down the street, his shoes sloshing through puddles, but the horrid wind and rain did nothing to help. To make matters worse, a roar of thunder rumbled through the air, lightning flashing several seconds afterward in the distance.

And on top of all that, Coco was _screaming_.

Héctor nearly froze where he stood; he could hardly see in this rain, but if he didn’t get home soon, he had no hope of saving his guitar—the sole thing that earned him money for his family. Yet all he could focus on was Coco, his little _angelita_ , who was completely terrified, clutching his drenched shirt in a deathgrip and bawling into his chest.

He had to do something.

Glancing off to the side, he confirmed what he’d hoped was there, and rushed up to the closest building, hugging the wall as best as he could with the guitar on his back. The eaves of the building were just big enough for him to hide under, keeping them sheltered from the rain.

“ _Shhh, shhh,_ it’s okay, _mija_ , it’s okay,” he whispered, stroking his hand over her soaked, short braids. Still Coco continued to wail, her face buried into his chest. “No, no, you’re okay. We’ll be safe here for now. Don’t worry…”

Thunder rumbled again, louder and closer now, and Coco wasn’t much quieter.

Slowly Héctor slid into a seated position, drawing his legs up and his arms around his daughter, cocooning her from the storm around them. Gradually her screams faded, but she was still sobbing, even as Héctor rocked her gently.

Not knowing what else to do, he began to hum.

His music always calmed her—when she was fussy, when she was tired but didn’t want to sleep, and even now, when she was frightened. He didn’t have a particular song in mind, this time, merely humming whatever notes came to him first. All the while he held her close to his chest, keeping his head lowered over hers so she could hear his voice, his music over the storm.

Gradually Coco’s sobs softened into occasional hiccups, but Héctor kept singing. While rain around them did not stop, it seemed to fade from their world as the two of them were lost in their music.

Héctor wasn’t sure how long he sat there, shielding Coco and humming to her, but eventually the sound of distant thunder broke through into their world. Looking up, he found that, while the rain was still falling all around them, it was not nearly as harsh as it had been before. He had no idea how long it would stay that way.

Finishing his spontaneous song, he slowly eased himself to his feet, wincing at the pain in his back. He stepped out from under the eaves, brushing his hand over Coco’s hair when she whimpered into his chest again. With that, he resumed his journey down the street, his feet marching toward home on their own accord.

But just as they finally turned down the street their house stood on, a figure nearly charged over Héctor, and he jumped back with a startled cry.

“Where have you been?!” Imelda cried, pushing her damp hair out of her face. “I woke up to the sound of thunder, and you weren’t home yet, and I was worried that—!”

“Not now, Imelda,” Héctor whispered, and cringed when he felt how rough his voice had gone. Coco whimpered again, snuggling closer to him.

Seeing that, Imelda nodded softly, placing a hand on Héctor’s shoulder as they finally made their way back to their house.

The three of them were shivering as they stepped through the door, especially Héctor. Imelda was quick to take Coco from him, hurrying her into the bedroom to change her into dry clothing.

Héctor, meanwhile, shrugged his guitar off his shoulders with a groan, and turned away from it, almost afraid to look at its condition. He could feel water sloshing around inside it, and tipped it to let the water pour out over the already-damp floor. Finally he forced himself to look at it, grimacing at how thoroughly soaked it was. This old guitar had already been through a lot _before_ getting caught in a rainstorm. What was he supposed to do with it _now_?

Searching the house, he found a dry cloth, and set to work wiping down the worn instrument. He was so wrapped up in his work that he gave a start when he felt a hand at his shoulder, and turned. There, carrying a newly-dressed Coco, was Imelda, also in a new dress of her own. She looked from the guitar and back to Héctor, her eyebrows drawn up in concern, and Héctor felt his heart sink as he shook his head. “ _L-lo siento_ , Imelda, I don’t think—”

Imelda placed her finger over his mouth. “ _Shh_. There’s nothing to be done about it now.” Rubbing her hand over his back, she rested her head on his shoulder. “You and Coco are home safe. That’s all that matters right now.”

He nodded, feeling a numbness that had little to do with how cold he was. “I… I’ll go to buy a new one tomorrow. We’ll be okay. I don’t need to eat that much.”

“Go change, Héctor,” was all she said, and he obeyed, shakily rising to his feet and trudging to the bedroom.

When he returned in a clean outfit, he found Imelda making coffee in the kitchen. Coco was dozing on the couch, and Héctor took a seat next to her. Her hair was still damp, but otherwise she’d been thoroughly dried and cleaned. He pulled her to his side, and she didn’t protest much, only whimpering a little as she quickly settled against him.

Moments later, a thick blanket thwumped over Héctor’s shoulder. As he worked at unfolding it and draping it over himself and Coco, Imelda sat at their daughter’s other side. She held out a mug of coffee for Héctor, which he gratefully accepted, and she took a sip of her own.

There the three of them sat, sharing their warmth as they listened to the sounds of the remainder of the storm passing over.

When the time came to put Coco to bed, Héctor was the one to carry her to their room and tuck her into their bed. (She didn’t have a bed of her own yet—perhaps when she was bigger.) As he took a seat next to her, he felt her forehead for perhaps the dozenth time that evening, but it still remained a normal temperature. It was a weight off his shoulders, but there was still another burden remaining.

“Song?” Coco murmured, looking up at him expectantly. Thanks to her earlier nap, she wasn’t quite as tired as she should be, but usually a song or three was enough to fix that.

Héctor gave her a lopsided smile. “Well… I can sing for you, but we’ll have to do it a little different this time.” When she gave him a confused look, he sighed, but refused to drop the smile. “We’ll have to do it without the guitar, okay?”

“And why is that?”

Startled, Héctor turned around to see Imelda leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. Normally she let him and Coco have some privacy when he sang lullabies to her—she never intruded like this.

Remembering she’d asked a question, he cleared his throat. “Uh, well… the guitar is…” He looked from her to Coco, not sure he wanted to let his daughter know that the guitar was likely wrecked beyond repair.

“That guitar was old as can be and was going to wear out eventually,” Imelda said with a sigh. “But I was hoping it would last until the end of November.”

Héctor blinked. “That’s… weirdly specific. Why then?”

Imelda threw her head back, rolling her eyes, and pulled something out from behind her. Before he was able to register what it was, she shoved it into his arms.

A shining white, new guitar.

“Happy early birthday, _mi amor,_ ” Imelda said, bending down to kiss him on the cheek. “Now go play for her.”

Héctor’s breath caught in his throat for a long moment, and then his chest began to heave. He could only stare in amazement at the gorgeous instrument, wondering just how long Imelda had been saving money to buy him this. Silver markings framed the body, and the head was decorated by gorgeous skull markings, and even the pegs—

“ _Song_?” Coco demanded, and he looked up to see her eyeing him, clearly wondering why he was taking so long to play for her.

Letting out a laugh that nearly turned into a sob, Héctor rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “ _Sí_ , Coco, I’ll play you a song.” Automatically his hands got to work at tuning the guitar, and soon enough he was plucking at the strings, coaxing even more beautiful notes out of this guitar than he’d ever played in his life. Coco wouldn’t notice, not until she was older, but Imelda knew, and…

 _Ay_ , he loved his family.


	5. Worked Themselves to Exhaustion (Imelda, Coco, Óscar, Felipe)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya folks! For those who saw the author's notes on my last chapter of Neither Can You--my family situation is doing a little better. It's not 100% okay, but we're working it out. Thanks to everyone for praying for us or keeping us in your thoughts.
> 
> Here's the next oneshot! Thanks to Jaywings and Doodle for beta-reading.
> 
> Prompt: Worked Themselves to Exhaustion  
> Characters: Imelda, Coco, Óscar, Felipe

A week after Héctor left with Ernesto on the train out of Santa Cecilia, Coco’s left shoe began to fall apart. Ever the frugal one, Imelda had set about to fix it on her own, and found she wasn’t too bad at the task. This got her thinking, and as soon as she was able, she wrote to Héctor about her desire to learn to make shoes.

Héctor had been more than supportive of the idea. Not that she’d ever needed his approval, of course, but it always made her smile to see his support, even in written form. He’d even filled the letter with little drawings of shoes, which had gotten a laugh out of Coco. A shoemaker and a musician—they would be quite the pair!

He would send letters detailing the people he and Ernesto met, the places they would see, and the things they did. But of course, he would always go on about how much he missed his girls and how he couldn’t wait to see their faces again. He even wrote separate letters for Coco, usually on short scraps of paper and with big lettering for her to easily see. He would even send her poems and song lyrics, which delighted her to no end. (Sometimes Coco would ask Imelda to try to sing the new poems he would send, but it usually ended with the two of them laughing at Imelda’s woeful lack of songwriting talent.)

Every time he sent his letters and earnings, Imelda would immediately write up a letter to send back to him. It was an annoying process, having to mail it to the inn it was mailed from, with instructions to forward it to the next hotel (Héctor would always leave a note with the hotel staff to have the mail forwarded), but it made sure they both kept up with each other. Imelda was able to tell Héctor everything that happened while he was gone—about how she had been doing with her shoe-making apprenticeship, how Coco was doing and how much they missed him, how they’d been visiting regularly with her parents and brothers, and so on. She’d let Coco dictate a bit of the letter, too, which she could imagine made him smile.

But it wasn’t the same as his _being_ there.

Coco was always asking Imelda about when Papá would come home, and unfortunately, the answer was always changing. Along with all the other things Héctor wrote to them about, there would also be the occasional update about their tour—invariably, about how it was going to be extended. A few more days, a few more weeks. Another month.

While Héctor had never been a doormat, he’d always had trouble saying no to Ernesto.

Still, Imelda admitted, he was working hard for them, and so was she.

She’d already started preparing to set up shop, but it was more difficult work than she’d anticipated—and not just in terms of paperwork and preparing the supplies. Even with the money Héctor sent her, the supplies she had to buy went a bit over her budget. Despite this, she was determined to keep going with one less meal a day for herself, as long as Coco was fed.

When the first orders came in, Imelda was nearly overwhelmed. She knew how to make all of these kinds of shoes, of course, but now she wasn’t apprenticing under a skilled shoemaker—she was working on her own. Still, she wasn’t going to let Coco know just how overwhelmed she felt. Instead, she would send Coco off to visit her grandparents and _tíos_ while she worked alone at the house. Years from now she would probably think back to this moment and laugh at how overwhelmed she’d been at a handful of simple orders—she knew this, because she wasn’t going to give up. She knew things would be bumpy at the start, even if it was a bit _more_ than she’d expected, and she knew that it wouldn’t be quite so hard once Héctor was home.

Several days later the orders were done and paid for, and the money came in. And sure enough, so did Héctor’s earnings. It still didn’t quite make up for the cost of starting the business, but that was okay—she could manage like this for a bit longer until more money came through. She could keep going until Héctor returned.

But as the weeks wore on, so did the tour.

“Don’t worry, _mi amor_ , I’ll be back for _Dia de Muertos_.”

 _Dia de Muertos_ passed. Imelda lit candles for Héctor’s parents alongside the ones for her own relatives, and went back to work on her orders.

“It really shouldn’t be for much longer. I’ll definitely be there before my birthday.”

His birthday passed. Imelda and Coco wrote him birthday wishes and mailed them off to him.

“I’ll put my foot down this time. I’ll take the train home, and be there before _Las Posadas_.”

 _Las Posadas_ , _Nochebuena_ , and _Navidad_ all passed, and the letters had stopped coming.

When she and Coco came to stay at her parents’ place over the holiday (and after she managed to get away from explaining the shoe-making process to her brothers for the dozenth time), her mother drew her aside. “No man with any respect for his family skips _Navidad_ ,” she said. There was a long pause, as Imelda struggled for the words to say. “I told you this would happen event—”

“He’s coming back,” Imelda snapped back, and that was the end of it. She didn’t speak with her mother for the rest of her time there, and the next day, she and Coco went home.

Imelda was just getting back to her work orders when Coco stepped up to her. “When _is_ Papá coming back?” she asked, and Imelda paused.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, staring at the shoes numbly. In all honesty, she’d answered her mother out of sheer stubbornness, though she knew that there had been some truth to her mamá’s words.

He’d said he would be home. He’d said he would put his foot down, and take the train home.

That was the last he’d said.

As she mulled it over, a worry came over her—what if he _had_ taken the train, but something had happened?

The next opportunity she got, she headed for the train station, demanding to see the records of the passengers from Mexico City to Santa Cecilia. After a bit of prodding, the workers at the station relented, and she scoured the records for any mention of Héctor’s name, starting from the day he’d sent the letter and onward.

Nothing.

He’d never boarded the train, like he said he would. That meant one of two things: he’d changed his mind, or he’d been lying, and she wasn’t sure which was worse.

Imelda found herself partially saddened and partially angry at the thought, but there was another worry that gnawed at her: if he wasn’t sending letters, he wasn’t sending earnings, either. While part of her was angry at herself for thinking about money when her husband was surely the more important thing, she reminded herself firmly that their _daughter_ was important, too. And even if Imelda could go without dinner every day, Coco could not.

So later that night, after tucking Coco in and after making some last-minute touches on her current orders, she did not immediately go to bed. Instead she sat at her desk with a pen and paper and began to work out the budget for her meager savings and earnings.

With the cost requirement for her shoemaking supplies combined with the cost for food, the money she made was simply not enough to cover both. The supplies were too important—she needed them to carry out the business. Feeding Coco was important as well, and making her go without a meal was unthinkable.

Two hours into the night, Imelda could find no other solution—she would have to limit her own meals again. She’d been learning to deal with going hungry in the evening, and she could learn to deal with a little less food. (Or she could ask her parents for help, but that would mean admitting she was wrong and that she could not take care of her family, which she refused to do.)

As the weeks went on, her limited budget and limited meals wore on her more than she’d anticipated. She was finding herself growing more and more tired, but people were pleased with her work, and the orders kept coming in. This should have meant more money, but she couldn’t keep up with the orders on her own, and the work continued to pile up.

And to twist the knife, Coco was _still_ asking about Héctor.

“Why hasn’t he sent a letter, Mamá?” “Can you read me another letter?” “When is he coming home?”

When, indeed.

The thought made her angrier the more she thought about it—why _hadn’t_ he come home? Why would he stop sending the letters? Stop sending _money_? Did he not care if Coco starved? Did he truly care more about his stupid friend, his stupid tour, his stupid _music_ more than his family?

Imelda tried to put the thoughts out of her head—she had to focus on Coco and shoes right now. She had to, or there was no way she would survive.

But surviving was getting harder. It seemed sometimes that no matter how much work she did, it never got any easier, and the pile of orders never grew smaller. She was making shoes, ordering supplies, shopping, making food, and taking care of Coco, and it felt like it never ended.

At least before, relief would come in the form of Héctor’s letters—until she got to the parts stating that his tour was being extended yet again. Now she didn’t even have that, and instead of the thought of her husband bringing her joy, it brought her anger. That no-good _músico_ —how could he leave her and Coco like this?! But… fine. If that _cabrón_ thought he didn’t need her anymore, _fine_. She didn’t need him anymore, either, and she could take care of this business and raise Coco all on her own.

Imelda let her anger fuel her. It was all she had left.

But even stubbornness and anger were no match for the slow, steady stream of trouble that continued to chip away at her. Deep down, she knew it was only a matter of time before she would finally crack.

One day she sat at her work table, eyelids drooping as she worked on a pair of wingtips that was giving her trouble. They never had before, but in her exhaustion she’d made a mistake with the leather and had to start over on the left shoe. Even though she’d gone for some time with her adjusted diet, she still felt hunger gnawing at her—the eggs she’d had this morning didn’t make up for her small lunch and skipped dinner. On top of that, she found herself nodding off—sleeping through the night on an empty stomach was never easy—and had to constantly force herself to focus. She was so _tired_ , and so _hungry_ , but these shoes weren’t going to finish themselves, and money wasn’t going to keep coming in the mail.

No thanks to that no-good, stupid musi—

“Mamá, when is Papá coming home?”

The half-finished shoe struck against the table with a _bang_ , followed by loud clattering noises as several tools fell to the floor.

“He’s not _coming_ home, Coco!”

Imelda was standing, though she couldn’t remember getting up, and her mind didn’t immediately register the expression on her daughter’s face as she went on: “That man does _not_ care about us anymore, and he is _never_ coming home!”

It took her a moment to realize that Coco was taking several steps backward, eyes wide and hands covering her mouth. She then realized that she’d shouted at her daughter, and had struck the table, and had been glaring down at her, and—

Fiery anger was quickly drowned out by the cold numbness of shock. “ _Mija_ —”

“No!” Coco cried, taking a more deliberate step back and shaking her head. “Papá _said_ he was coming home! He is! He’s going to come back!”

Angry tears stung at Imelda’s eyes, and she tried to keep them away. _Stupid musician, look what you’ve done to your daughter, sending her those letters and making her hold onto a foolish hope for so long…!_ She shook her head, and she spoke again, not quite as harshly as before: “That man _lied_ to you, _mija_. He stopped sending letters months ago. He’s _not_ coming back.”

“No! _No_!” And Coco bolted, running past Imelda and out the door. “ _PAPA_!”

“Coco!” Imelda cried, turning to run after her, only to step on one of the tools she’d knocked off the table and fall to the ground. She dropped to her knees and caught herself on her hands, scraping both palms against the floor, and shakily rose to her feet. The world seemed to spin for a moment at the thought that she’d lost her husband, and she couldn’t lose her daughter, too.

Fighting against the pain in her knees, she rushed out the door and looked around the courtyard, but Coco was nowhere in sight. Furthermore, the gate had been pushed open, just enough for a small child to get through.

“ _COCO_!” Imelda shouted, yanking the gate open and looking down the road one way, then another.

She didn’t have to search long; a short distance down the road, Óscar and Felipe were crouched down, trying their best to soothe a sobbing and frantic Coco. Imelda heaved deep sigh, grateful that her brothers had apparently decided to pay her a visit today.

She walked toward the three at a careful pace, wary of making Coco run off again. As she got closer, she could make out some of the words her daughter was babbling: “G-gonna be back… o-o-on the train… s-s-said he’d be…”

Felipe was the first to look up at Imelda, giving her a questioning look as he rubbed Coco’s back. She only shook her head—she didn’t want to talk to them about this while Coco was there to hear. Seeming to sense this, Felipe wordlessly nudged Óscar, who patted his niece’s back before standing up.

While Felipe picked up Coco, Óscar approached Imelda, looking her up and down. He seemed to note the scuff marks on her apron and red patches on the heels of her hands, but his gaze lingered on her face. “What happened?” he asked quietly.

In spite of the shame she felt in her chest, she refused to look away from Óscar’s gaze. “I… I snapped at Coco,” she admitted, hating the way her voice was beginning to waver.

“She wanted to go to the train station,” Óscar said, looking back to Felipe, who was bouncing Coco around. The little girl gave a soft, tired giggle. “I… guess she thinks Héctor will be there.”

“He won’t be,” Imelda said, finally turning away. “He never will be.”

Seconds later, she felt Óscar’s hand on her shoulder. “You’re working too hard, _hermana_. Don’t think no one’s noticed.” He paused. “…Even Coco.”

Imelda gave a start, glancing over her shoulder.

Óscar nodded. “She told us that you told her that… that adults don’t need to eat as much as little _niñas_.”

“It’s true,” she said, looking her brother in the eye. “Coco’s a growing girl.” But, seeing his unconvinced look, she heaved a sigh. “I’ve been cutting some of my own meals. But I’ll be all right, once I earn enough money to—”

“How long have you been going like this?”

Imelda paused, not because she didn’t want to answer, but because she’d been doing it for so long she’d legitimately forgotten when she’d started. It wasn’t after the letters stopped—no, it was sometime before that, when… “…Since I started the business.”

“ _Imelda_!” Óscar cried, throwing out his arms. Some distance behind him, Felipe and Coco looked up in surprise before her brother quickly went back to distracting her. “You’re going to kill yourself like this!”

“You’re one to talk!” Imelda snapped. “I can’t count the times you two would get hurt from your absurd experiments!”

Óscar flinched back, arms wrapped around his middle. “W-we’re just… worried about you,” he said, looking away. “You… you haven’t been yourself since Héctor left.”

Slowly she realized that she’d snapped at someone, _again_ , and rubbed at her forehead. “ _…Lo siento_ ,” she said, heaving a sigh. “I didn’t mean to shout.”

“It’s okay,” he said, though his tone didn’t say the same. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him motion to Felipe, who came closer. “Listen, um… We weren’t sure if this was the right time, but—”

“—Óscar and I were thinking,” Felipe went on. “Mamá and Papá have been wanting us to get a job for ourselves, and we’re—”

“—both very interested in the whole shoe-making process.” Now Óscar was starting to perk up. “You won’t have to—”

“—teach us much, since we’ve already—”

“—memorized it from what you told us.”

“Just need to watch it a few times.”

“Two.”

“Or three.”

“And then we could join you!” they finished.

Coco, still in Felipe’s arms, giggled at the two’s back-and-forth speech. She still had dried tear stains on her face.

Imelda looked from her daughter to her brothers, thinking this through. Her brothers would be two more mouths to feed, but she knew they spoke the truth when they insisted they were fast learners. If they could help her with work, she could finish the orders faster, and take on more orders at once… meaning more pay. Meaning she might not have to skip meals any longer.

It was hard, knowing that Héctor would probably never come back, but…

Looking at her two brothers staring at her eagerly and her daughter looking up at them, she knew—that musician may have abandoned her, but her _family_ had not.

She was going to be okay.


	6. Setting a Broken Bone (Héctor, Chicharrón)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya folks! Yes, I'm still working on these. This one took a lot longer than I expected, but here it is! HUGE thanks to Jaywings and PaperGardener for beta reading this for me.
> 
> Prompt: Setting a Broken Bone  
> Characters: Héctor, Chicharrón, pre-movie

A metallic groan filled the air, waking Héctor up from his daze. He wasn’t sure what time it was, or even what _day_ it was, but he was very quickly aware of the overwhelming pain in his leg. In the dim light of the holding cell, he could see the scotch tape barely clinging to the two broken portions of his left tibia, the larger bone in his lower leg—the tape had lost most of its adhesiveness a day or so ago, and he was frankly amazed it had lasted this long. With a tired moan, he turned in his cot, trying to shift the broken leg to a more comfortable position, only to belatedly realize why that was a bad idea. The two broken ends scraped against each other, and his voice pitched up into a shriek that quickly tapered off.

He’d done quite enough screaming over the past few… days, or however long it had been since _Dia de Muertos._

Not long enough, given he wouldn’t be able to try again until next year. _Ay._

Past the heavy cell door, he could hear hushed voices, followed by a faint clinking. It was too hard to think past the pain, so he thought nothing of it until the door creaked open.

Lifting himself up on his elbow, he blinked at the two guards who stared down at him. They were looking from his face and back to his injured leg, the older one of them frowning and the younger one wincing. The first leaned over to his partner, trying to whisper to her, but Héctor caught what he was saying anyway: “You see what I mean?”

“ _Hola,_ ” Héctor said, forcing a tired smile. “Can I help you, _señor y señora_?”

“Uh… no,” the younger guard said, glancing away briefly. “We’re just here to tell you that you’re free to go.”

“…Go? Right now?” He reached up to scratch his dirty wig, eyes narrowing as he tried to think past the fog of pain. Had it really been… a month? Was that how long he’d been here? That was how long he was supposed to be here, he was pretty sure. Or maybe the corrections officer had been exaggerating?

“We’re letting you out early, Rivera,” the older guard said, pulling his hands behind his back. “Under normal circumstances you’d carry out the full sentence, but…”

“You need a doctor,” the younger guard blurted out. “Seriously. We can’t keep you here in this state.”

Oh. A doctor, huh? Aside from the fact that he wasn’t particularly keen on a man he didn’t know rearranging his bones…

 He lay back down in his cot, snatching his hat from the floor and setting it over his face, smiling sadly. “Well, it’s a nice thought,” he said, managing a laugh, “but that sort of thing costs money that I don’t have.”

“Regardless, she’s right. We really can’t keep you here like this, and frankly, we don’t want to.”

“Can’t imagine why.” He resisted the urge to wiggle the foot on his bad leg in demonstration. Of course, he could guess what they were talking about—he wasn’t exactly deaf to the pained sounds he was making. Or maybe they could just feel sorry for him, but he doubted it.

“ _Basta_.” He heard the guard’s bones clatter in what was probably an exasperated gesture. “You’re free to go, Rivera. Let’s get you out of here.”

“ _Sí_ ,” Héctor replied, with no small amount of bitterness. “Just give me a moment to hop on up.” In truth, he wasn’t exactly upset about being let out early, but… if they were actually concerned about his well-being, they might have done _something_ to help him with his leg.

At least they hadn’t made him deal with those awful cuffs—the ones that had _some_ sort of magic in them that locked one’s bones together. He usually had to deal with those things to keep him from pulling himself apart to slip through the bars, but this time they hadn’t bothered—not like he could get anywhere with a snapped tibia.

Biting his lip, he re-adjusted his hat and carefully eased himself up into a sitting position, staring down at the two halves of his left tibia. Hm, this would be a challenge. He reached down to peel off the remainder of the tape first, which should have been an easy task. Most of it wasn’t sticky anymore to begin with, having quickly gotten covered in dust and ash, but as he pulled it away a small part caught against the jagged crack in the bone, and he jumped in his seat with a startled yelp.

“D-do you need help, Señor Rivera?” the younger guard stammered, and he gazed up at them.

The female guard was new—mid-to-late twenties, it looked like, possibly even recently-dead, given he hadn’t seen her before. Her hair was in a long, dark braid that went past her waist, and she didn’t wear lipstick. She stood oddly tall compared to the other guard—Juan, he recalled the name suddenly. Juan was big and stocky (or as stocky as a skeleton could be), but not much in the height department, whereas this girl looked like she might be barely shorter than Héctor. She kept looking from her partner and back to him, and Héctor couldn’t tell if she was uncomfortable with the situation in general, or just uncomfortable with him.

Probably the latter. No one felt comfortable around the dusty old souls from the shanties.

“I’ll manage,” he grumbled finally, tossing the wad of tape away and looking down at his leg again. He wasn’t going to put weight on his tibia—he wasn’t sure if he could wreck his bones permanently, and he didn’t want to find out. So… he’d have to be a little more creative. At first he almost tried to grab for half of his tibia, but it wasn’t set right, and trying to pull it off that way would be disastrous. Instead he plucked off his kneecap, ignoring the sounds of disgust from the guards, grabbed the bottom half of his broken tibia with one hand, and with his other hand carefully eased his already-loose fibula off of his leg. The bottom half of the tibia, no longer connected to anything, came loose, and Héctor set it to his other side, wincing when he placed it on the bed. Next came the upper half, which he gently tugged away and set next to its mate, before reassembling the rest of his leg.

With his femur and kneecap connected to the fibula, which was connected to his foot, that should give him… _some_ support, right?

“Wh… what is he doing,” the younger guard whispered, not quite quiet enough for Héctor to miss it.

“What I can,” Héctor replied simply, pressing his hands into either side of his cot as he eased himself to his feet. He kept most of his weight on his good leg and braced one hand against the wall. Even then, his bad leg was already wobbling. The fibula was _definitely_ not made to bear weight by itself, but maybe it would last him until he got to Shantytown. He pulled his hand away from the wall, and, when he didn’t immediately fall, forced a smile. “See? You can learn to make due when—”

_Pop._

Héctor flailed as he tried to lean toward the wall again a second too late, and quickly loosened his joints as his body tipped over on its left side. A few bones were knocked out of place at the impact, but were otherwise unharmed, and he grumbled as he willed himself back together, careful to keep the tibia away. Right, he’d forgotten that fibula didn’t like to stay in place anymore.

“Enough of this,” Juan growled, grabbing Héctor by the arm and hoisting him up. “Yolanda, you take his other side.”

The female guard—Yolanda, evidently—shot Héctor an apologetic look as she took his other arm, lifting it around her shoulders. Hesitantly she glanced over at the broken tibia sitting on the cot, and reached down to pick up one of the pieces, looking like someone who had to pick up a particularly filthy piece of trash.

Héctor immediately shuddered, clenching his teeth. “ _Ay_ , be _careful_ with that—!” he whined, and Yolanda responded by tucking the broken bone under her free arm, and doing the same with the other half, thankfully keeping the broken ends away from each other.

So here he was, being hoisted by two guards out of the holding cell early, with his tibia being carried by one of the guards and rubbing against itself.

It was going to be one of those days.

Keeping his head down and his hat shading his face, Héctor let himself be dragged out of the building, biting his metaphorical tongue against the “friendly” jeers a few of the workers there threw at him: “Ah, there he is!” “Ey, gotta keep yourself together.” “That was some show on _Dia de Muertos_! Could’a used more fireworks, though.” “Tough luck, huh? Maybe next year, _amigo_!”

Yes, maybe next year he would cross so he didn’t have to stick around to hear their _estúpido_ unfunny jokes. But finally he was out of the building and out onto the streets, and Juan shrugged him off of his shoulders. “All right. You can head on home, now.”

“What?” Héctor blurted, snapping his head up to give the guard an incredulous look. “You’re just gonna leave me here like this?”

“This is the Department of Family Reunions, not a transportation service. The gondola station’s two blocks away, trolley is three.”

“Ah, _sí_ , let me just walk over there on my _one leg_!” he snarled, but the guard had already turned away and was walking up the steps. Heaving a frustrated sigh, he turned to the other officer, who was looking away. “What? Aren’t you gonna leave, too?”

“Uh, well.” Yolanda re-adjusted her grip on his broken tibia, causing him to hiss at the mild pain. “My shift ends in…”—she glanced at her watch—“six minutes anyway. I… I can help you get to the station, if… if you…”

“So you don’t have leaving a _pobre_ soul like me to fend for himself on your conscience?” he muttered, and immediately winced when he realized he’d said it aloud. “I… _lo siento_. Yes. I would… like that.”

Seeming to ignore his earlier comment, she gave him a look over, her gaze lingering on his bad leg (the fibula barely clinging to his femur and kneecap) before she pulled him a little closer. “Be careful,” she said, and began walking. “Where is it you need to get to?”

Rattling off the tower address and the station that would take him the closest to his section of Shantytown (and it was never close), Héctor put the rest of his focus on keeping his bad leg from falling apart again. That fibula did _not_ want to stay connected, and if he moved his leg just wrong, it was going to come apart again.

“You’re sure I can’t take you to a doctor, _señor_?” Yolanda asked, drawing him out of his thoughts.

“No,” he said quickly, staring down at the cobblestone beneath his bare feet. “I don’t have the money, and anyway, they don’t…” Realization struck him, and and he shut his eyes as a numbness filled the void where his stomach once was. “They don’t… treat people who can’t heal.”

The guard went silent after that, and Héctor resumed his focus on keeping his leg from falling apart, or trying to. _Don’t think about it right now,_ he told himself as the numbness slowly began to morph into something more dangerous that would not help him right now. _It may still be okay. They can probably still do something for you back home. There are people there worse than you, and they get through, right? You’ll be okay._

“ _Señor?_ ”

Blinking, Héctor shook himself out of his thoughts and found himself staring down at his solitary foot.

…Wait…

“You… seem to have dropped something back there.”

_Ay_ , this was going to be a long day.

It took a few tries to get his fibula reconnected with the rest of his leg, but they managed, and Yolanda continued to walk him down to the gondola station. They reached it without incident, and Héctor dug through his pouch to scrounge up the coins necessary to pay for the trip, relieved he had enough for that, at least.

“ _Gracias_ ,” he murmured to the girl as she helped him onto the bench in the little car and handed him the two halves of his tibia. But when she turned around to head out, he blinked. “Are you not coming?”

“No, sorry, _señor_ ,” she said, not turning to face him. “I… I need to get home to my family.”

“Ah.” _Wish I could say the same._ “ _Adiós_ , then.”

Unsurprisingly, the other passengers in the gondola seemed to be keeping their distance from him, some of them practically sitting on top of each other to avoid getting too close. The ones across from him deliberately looked away, or stole glances at his leg or his disconnected bones when they thought he wouldn’t notice. It was something he should probably be used to by this point, after so many decades of bearing dusty, yellowed bones and tattered clothes, but some part of him still ached at the thought that he’d become someone that no one wanted to be around.

Not even his family.

Heaving a shaking sigh, he tipped his hat to shadow his face, so he could at least pretend to not notice their stares.

While it was nice to rest his bad leg for a while, at least, the break was short-lived, and the gondola came to its final stop. Héctor stayed put, letting everyone else shuffle out around him so there wouldn’t be any witnesses to the spectacle of him trying to get out on one leg. As he waited, he stared down at his fibula, wondering if he could coax it to stay in place somehow. He had no more tape on him, however (he’d only grabbed as much as he could from the correction officer’s desk before being incarcerated), and not a lot of time before the conductor threw him out. He wrung his hands for a moment before catching a glimpse of his right sleeve—the worn suit had been damaged during his crossing attempt, some of the fabric toward the end hanging in shreds. Having no better ideas, he quickly tore off a strip of the fabric and got to work tying it around the end of his femur and his loose fibula.

Hopefully it would hold, at least until he got to Shantytown. There was nothing else he could do.

With one hand clutching the two halves of his broken tibia close to his chest, he used his other hand to push himself up off his seat, his left leg wobbling. The movement immediately felt wrong—the fibula was _not_ meant to bear weight without the aid of the tibia—but he kept as much weight on his other leg as he could, and began limping.

People waiting the board the gondola immediately backed away upon seeing him, and he ignored them, trying to act like it was the most normal thing for a half-lame skeleton to be limping around and carrying his own broken bones with him. It wasn’t an easy feat when his leg left like it would give out beneath him with every step, but he kept it up anyway, at least until he got past the crowds. It was still a long walk to get to Shantytown from here, and in this condition, it would take even longer.

Héctor found himself getting worn out quickly, and hobbled over to lean against the wall of a building with the intent of resting until he caught his breath. Unfortunately the shop owner had other ideas, and poked his head through the doorway to ask Héctor to not loiter. Héctor could only mumble an apology as he shuffled away, too tired to put up a fight this time.

For some distance he carried on like that, limping down the gradually sloping streets and stopping to rest where he could. Occasionally people would openly stare at him and whisper to each other, but he was beyond caring at this point. Even with his efforts to put most of his weight on his good leg, his left fibula was aching something terrible, and his energy was near-spent by the time he was halfway to Shantytown. He couldn’t very well sleep on the side of the street, in front of one of these buildings—not unless he wanted to get arrested again—or fall asleep in an alley and risk falling prey to petty thieves, so he had to force himself to keep moving.

At one point his foot caught against an uneven cobblestone, and with a wave of blinding panic he realized he was about to slam his already-broken tibia into the street. Twisting himself around on his spine, he managed to turn his front half around, clutching his tibia to his chest for dear life and falling hard on his shoulder. The fall still hurt a bit, dislodging a few bones, but he’d prevented himself from ruining his leg any more than it already was, so at least he had that.

Taking a moment to catch his breath as his panic ebbed away, he called his bones back. He made it to his knees, and, not thinking, tried to push himself up on his bad leg. The pressure sent a jolt of pain through his fibula, and for a terrifying moment he thought the thin bone would snap. But it held, and he eased his leg back down.

As Héctor fought to stand up again, part of him wished someone would see his struggle and _help_ him. But fewer people came down this low on the tower, and those who did walked in a wide arc around him, sparing him a glance, if anything. At the same time, he almost wished no one were here at all, so they wouldn’t have to see him in such a ridiculous predicament. Those who saw him were probably wondering what on earth he’d done to land himself in such a terrible position, and that was a question he didn’t want to explain the answer to.

It took him far longer than it should have to right himself, but he managed, and with a more pronounced limp he resumed his trek down to the shanties. Under his breath he nearly cursed the guard who had simply dumped him on the street when his screams had gotten too grating to listen to. _It’s better than staying in there, though,_ he reminded himself, and the anger reluctantly ebbed away. _They could have just made you stay there with your broken leg._ And aside from that… they weren’t the ones at fault in the first place.

That would be the _idiota_ who thought that attempting to rocket himself over the bridge via fireworks was a viable plan.

_Ay_ , that would be something to explain to his Shantytown family. People didn’t usually ask questions there, but they might this time given the state he was coming home in. _Ah, yeah, the fireworks. Turns out they don’t make good transportation. But they do have a tendency to blow off your limbs if you stand too close. Who knew, right?_

A chuckle escaped his throat, only to be cut off by a gasp as his left leg gave out beneath him, sending him crashing to the ground. He wasn’t able to twist himself around this time, and his tibia was caught between his body and the hard cobblestone ground.

All that existed was pain. If Héctor were capable of thinking beyond the current agony, he would have found the pain comparable to what he’d felt the moment he’d realized his tibia was not in one piece.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been lying there before he gradually became aware of a strange barking noise accompanied by an insectoid buzzing and distant footfalls, which he could just barely make out over what sounded like a hoarse scream nearby.

…Oh. That last part was him, wasn’t it?

Choking, he pushed himself up on his arm, wearily raising his head to see a sky-blue and neon-orange _alebrije_ flying toward him—one that looked like a fox with ears as big as its body, and buzzing dragonfly wings carrying it through the air. It was strangely familiar, and suddenly he recalled that one of his _primos_ back in Shantytown had an _alebrije_ like that. But that would mean—!

“Héctor? Cousin Héctor?!”

Héctor wheezed out a laugh and let his head drop, facing the cobblestone below him. “ _Hola_ , Primo Lorenzo,” he said, lifting his head again and cocking a brow bone as the man got closer. The _alebrije_ , meanwhile, landed next to him and began sniffing him over, its breath almost ticklish against him. “Good to see you out and about.”

“Where have you been, cousin?!” Lorenzo cried, hurrying closer. His sombrero, tied around his neck, was flailing behind him. “Did you get yourself arrested again? Why are you— _Dios mio_.” He stumbled, drawing back with an alarmed hiss.

“Ah, it’s, uh… not as bad as it looks.” Héctor gave a sheepish grin, but it must not’ve been enough to convince his _primo_ , who was looking him over in horror.

Quickly Lorenzo’s widened eyes narrowed into a glare as he clenched his fists. “Who did this to you? Who do I gotta send Lola after, huh?”

Héctor looked askance at the little fox _alebrije_ that was now nosing his cheekbone, tickling his face with her whiskers. “Looks like you’ve already sent her after the one responsible, _primo_.”

Lorenzo looked him over again before heaving a deep sigh, frame wilting. “Come on, let’s get you home.” Stooping down, he grasped Héctor’s hand and eased him to his feet.

Biting back a moan as the pain flared in all parts of his broken leg, Héctor shut his eyes, leaning to his right side. “ _Gracias_ ,” he breathed, clutching the two halves of his tibia to his chest. He waited, expecting his _primo_ to wrap his arm around his shoulders to help him limp back to Shantytown.

Instead, there was a moment of silence before Lorenzo spoke: “Uh-uh.” And suddenly Héctor was lifted off his feet and scooped up into the man’s arms.

“ _¡¿Que?!_ ” Héctor blurted, opening his eyes to find himself being carried in the direction of the shanties. “ _Oye_ , what are you doing?!”

“You’re not walking like that,” Lorenzo said with a firm shake of his head. “Wouldn’t make it down two steps.”

…Ah. Right. The stairs. He’d forgotten about those. “Fair enough,” he muttered, settling himself in his _primo’s_ arms. Meanwhile, Lola buzzed around him, whimpering in concern. He wondered if Lorenzo would ever ask him what happened, but the man remained quiet, at least until they got to the stairs (in a shockingly short length of time, he thought—at the rate Héctor had been going, it might have taken him another hour or so).

“Heh, thought I was going to go play for tips this evening,” Lorenzo said, shaking his head. “Guess there’s always tomorrow.”

“Do they still come near you?” Héctor glanced toward him; Lorenzo’s bones were only in slightly better condition than his own, though he had a crack through the bottom of his right eye socket.

“Sometimes,” he replied, glancing over Héctor’s ribs so he could see the steps beneath him. “If I can play good enough, sometimes they don’t notice just how yellow my bones are.” He glanced back at Héctor as he stepped down to the first landing. “You should try it sometime, cousin.”

Thinking about playing music again made a heavy weight settle in his chest cavity. “ _No gracias, primo._ ”

“Eh. Suit yourself.” With that, Lorenzo kept quiet as he continued carrying Héctor down the rickety staircase, concentrating on not falling off or through the rotten wood. But finally they reached the gates to Shantytown, and Héctor twitched his good leg.

“Set me down,” he whispered, “ _por favor_. I…” _I don’t want anyone seeing me like this._ “…I think I can walk now.”

“You sure?”

“ _Sí. Please._ ”

Shrugging, Lorenzo eased Héctor down to his feet, but kept an arm around his shoulder. Héctor could accept that, throwing his own arm around his _primo_ and grinning like they’d just been having a fun conversation. No need to worry the others, after all.

As they limped into town, immediately it came to life with the joyful cries of the nearly-forgotten. “Cousin Héctor!” a few souls shouted, waving enthusiastically, and he called out their names in return. “Where you been, cousin?” called another.

“Out and about?” He tried to shrug as best as he could. “You know, got to keep up with the plans, heh. Get ready for next year!” It wasn’t entirely a lie—when he’d been able to think around his pain, he had been contemplating potential new plans for next year. And he _had_ been out and about. Primo Lorenzo was giving him a look, but he only grinned back, glancing pointedly in the direction of his shack.

“What’s that you’re carrying?” Tía Chelo asked, taking a few steps closer, and Héctor flinched, tugging it partially under his jacket.

“Nothing, nothing!” he said frantically, contemplating whether or not he should just scramble away from Lorenzo and bolt to his shack. “Just, uh…”

“Are you limping?” one _tío_ asked, also stepping closer. “What’s—eEEEAGH!”

Héctor shut his eyes, gritting his teeth. Here we go.

“What happened to your leg?!”

“ _Pobrecito_ cousin! Are you carrying your—?”

“When did _this_ happen?”

_Dios_ , he didn’t want to answer any of this right now. But he held up his free hand, grinning as best as he could as he faced the growing crowd of souls. “Hey, _estas bien_! I can barely feel it. You don’t need to worry about me, eh, _primos_?”

“You’ve been gone for two days, Héctor!”

“It doesn’t hurt?! I broke my pinky toe last month and could hardly walk!”

“Is your fibula tied to your _femur_? _¿Estas loco_?”

“ _¡Apártense!_ ” a harsh voice cut through the crowd, and a few souls moved out of the way. “What’re you all gawking at?”

Héctor flinched, fighting the childish urge to duck behind Primo Lorenzo as a familiar figure hobbled to the front of the crowd. “ _Hola_ , Chicharrón,” he said, voice small.

Chicharrón looked him up and down, eying his mangled leg and shattered tibia. Quickly he made the connection, and his usual scowl deepened.

Héctor felt his non-existent guts sink. He knew what was going to happen next, and braced himself.

To his surprise, Chicharrón turned around, hobbling back toward his bungalow. “Well, bring him over,” he called over his shoulder.

…Okay, so he was probably saving it for later, then. Wouldn’t be the first time this had happened. Héctor looked cautiously at Lorenzo, who only shrugged and began to help Héctor across the boardwalk to Chicharrón’s house. A couple souls followed while the rest stared. Their looks may have been ones of sympathy, but Héctor would rather they not look at him at all.

As they entered the bungalow, Chicharrón immediately began digging through his shelves and piles. “Set him in the hammock,” he grumbled, tossing a shoebox full of socks behind him, “and make sure he stays there.”

Héctor frowned. “It’s all right, Cheech. I can get in myself,” he said, moving to get away from Lorenzo so he could prove it.

“No, you can’t.” The old man glanced over his shoulder, nodding at the two souls that had come with them—probably Estefan and Manuel, if he were to guess without looking.

Before he could check, they were both suddenly at either side of him, hooking their arms under his in a way that reminded him a little too much of the security guards back at the bridge. But they weren’t rough, at least, and glancing to either side of him (his guesses had been correct), he found them looking away, their expressions a mix of sympathy and unease. “Wh-what’s with all this, Cheech? You’re just gonna duct tape it back together, aren’t you?” He looked frantically around the house, clutching his tibia as close to his body as he could. “You… have duct tape, right?”

“Mmm, nope, not this time,” came Chicharrón’s grumble from the other side of the house. A cascade of items crashed down at his side as he continued his search, unperturbed. “Leather n’ glue will have to do, and a splint until it sets.”

“Uh… well, that… still sounds doable. If you give it over to me, I could… probably do it,” Héctor offered as his _tíos_ gently lifted him into the hammock. Said hammock was full of junk, and he grimaced, pulling a violin bow out from beneath him as he tried to make himself comfortable. “I mean, not like last time, with my… arm.” His left hand reached over to rub said arm, over the tape and leather that held the fragmented end in place. “I-I’ve got both hands free this time!”

Finally Chicharrón turned to face him, straightening his back. “So set it.”

Héctor blanched, looking down from his tibia and back to Chicharrón. “What, right now?” When the old man’s expression didn’t change, Héctor attempted a smile, the corners of it strained. “What’s the rush? I was just going to head back home and take a nap, first—I mean, not like I’ve got anywhere to—”

Chicharrón marched up to the hammock, his cane stamping against the floor, and held out several strips of leather and a can of glue. “ _Set it._ ”

Stepping forward, Lorenzo held out a hand. “Cheech—”

Chicharrón shot a glare at Lorenzo, and waited until he backed off before looking back to Héctor.

Swallowing, Héctor reached out with a shaking hand to take the items, looking from the leather and back to his tibia. _It’s… it shouldn’t be_ that _hard_ , he thought, setting the leather and glue aside and taking one half of his bone in his left hand. _Just putting two pieces back together._ He bit his lip as he held out the two pieces of bone, trying to ignore that his _tíos_ and _primo_ were all turning away. _I’ve done crazier stuff to try to cross the bridge_. Trembling, he turned the two halves of the bone in what he guessed was the right angle, and—

The two broken fragments bumped against each other, and Héctor shrieked. Moments later, he could barely hear Chicharrón’s voice over his daze: “Now you see? Lorenzo, take those things over here. Estefan, bring me the rest of his leg. Manny, give him this, and hold him down.”

Before he could ask what was going on, a bottle was held out to him. He took it without question, tipping it back to pour some of its contents down his throat, some of it splashing against his face when his left leg was very suddenly tugged off below the femur. Shortly afterward the bottle was taken from him, and his two _tíos_ stood slightly behind him and off to either side of the hammock, each with their hands over his shoulders.

“ _Idiota_ ,” Chicharrón grumbled from the other side of the bungalow, and Héctor shut his eyes to keep himself from looking in the old man’s direction. “When we get _broke_ , we don’t get _fixed_ , and you go off with your _estúpido_ plans and…”

“Cousin Héctor,” Lorenzo said over Cheech’s grumbling, hurrying to the hammock, “have you thought about your plan for next year?”

Héctor eyed him. “Why are you asking me n—”

Pain briefly shot through his absent leg, and his voice hiked up into a yelp, his entire body bucking as his _tíos_ forced him back down. His femur swung around uselessly while his right leg kicked a jar of buttons and a very broken accordion out of the hammock.

“ _Sí_ , you were saying you were getting ready earlier,” Estefan said, his voice a little too loud.

Héctor shut his eyes, his hands clinging to either side of the hammock in a death grip. “I-I don’t know yet, the f-fireworks didn’t work this yeeEE _AAAAGH_ —”

“Fireworks?!” Chicharrón growled, and Héctor could only give a pained moan in reply.

“Okay, but what else can you try?” Lorenzo prodded, then waited for a response. “Cousin?”

Feeling like he would throw up if he tried to answer, Héctor only turned his head away, facing the sound of the water lapping the docks outside the house. There was a sudden but light pressure against his chest, and he gasped, looking up into the face of a tiny, big-eared fox. Instinctively he reached out to pet her, and tried to make his mind formulate words. “ _A-al… alebrije_?” he offered, and hissed as he felt something cold between the two halves of his tibia. Lola tipped her ears back at the sound, but didn’t move away, and he kept his focus on her. “C-could… dress as an _alebrije_ , and… and they’d… let me… pass…?”

Behind him came a few soft, but genuine, laughs. “How do you plan to do _that_ , cousin?”

“I… I think Ceci was using some glowy paint— _nnngh_!” He gritted his teeth, kicking out with his good leg as he felt his bad one get twisted slightly. “Use the—glowy paint, and—”

Chicharrón gave a frustrated cry. “Lorenzo, get over here!”

Héctor could feel them holding his tibia together while something was wrapped around it, binding to it with cold, sticky glue that made him shudder. “C-could rearrange my bones, a-and look like… an _alebrije…_ M-maybe some other costume work…” He shifted, trying to turn to grin up at his _tíos_. “You think it might work?”

Manuel cocked a brow bone. “ _Estas loco_ , cousin. Maybe, though.”

“Heh, _un poco_ ,” he mumbled, settling back into the hammock. Whatever they were doing to his leg didn’t seem to hurt quite so much now, and he felt like he could ignore it, maybe if he just shut his eyes again for a little while…

It didn’t feel like long, however, before his leg was suddenly shoved back against his femur. Yelping, he sat bolt upright, the hammock swaying beneath him, and looked around. Lola was sleeping off to his side, and on the other side of the bungalow, he could see his _primo_ and two _tíos_ talking quietly. But then where was—

He glanced back to the left and nearly leapt out of the hammock in surprise to see Chicharrón standing there, scowling at him. “Normally I’d ask you to get outta here, but unless you want your leg to snap like a twig again, _lie down_. Gotta let the glue set for twenty-four hours.”

“... _Gracias_ , Cheech,” he muttered, lying back into the hammock.

Chicharrón grunted, hobbling back over to a spot that Héctor couldn’t see. Meanwhile, Héctor looked down at his leg, inspecting it: a few long strips of leather had been wrapped around it and held with glue, which he could still see faint glimmers of. But over all that, a splint had been tied to his leg with a few more strips of leather and what appeared to be several strips of a charred fabric. It looked... blue? Purple? Something like that. Sort of like his—

Blinking, he looked to his right arm, only to find the sleeve had been cut off. “Wha—hey!” he cried, turning his head to look for Chicharrón and finding him off to the right behind his hammock. “You wrecked my suit!”

“That sleeve was in shreds anyway,” Chicharrón said with a shrug. “Don’t think you’re missing much.”

“Quite the fashion statement!” Manuel called from the other side of the shack. Héctor was almost offended, but his _tío_ gave him a good-natured grin—a real one, not like the ones the people in the Department of Family Reunions gave him.  “Maybe you’ll set a new trend.”

Héctor snorted, settling himself back into his hammock and shaking his head. “Ah, yes. The just-recently-blown-yourself-up look. Sure it’ll be... _explosively_ popular, eh?”

The others broke into laughter, while he was pretty sure he could hear Cheech rolling his eyes before shouting: “I’ll dump that hammock out into the water for the next one, Héctor!”

Lorenzo stepped up closer to Chicharrón, smiling. “Why’s that, Cheech? You don’t think it’ll _take off_?”

An empty bottle crashed at Lorenzo’s feet, and Lola’s head shot up from where she lay at Héctor’s side. But Lorenzo only laughed, and she settled back down, tucking her face against Héctor’s ribcage. Héctor smiled, resting his hand on her head as he glanced back down at his broken leg.

It still hurt a lot, and he wasn’t sure how well he was going to walk after this. On top of that, he had another failed _Dia de Muertos_ behind him, but...

Glass clinked nearby, and Héctor craned his neck to see Chicharrón taking a swig from a new bottle before passing it over to the others. The bottle was passed around until Lorenzo handed it off to Héctor, who took it with no small amount of gratitude, tipping it back. He probably drank more than Cheech would’ve liked, but it was enough to make him too drowsy to care.

He leaned back in the hammock as conversation resumed around him, still warm and friendly in spite of Chicharrón’s occasional grumbles—so different from the harsh voice of the security officer, the mocking voices from the Department of Family Reunions, or the suspicious whispers of the people in the upper parts of the city. It didn’t sound much different from any other day in the shanties, but it was comforting in the way only Shantytown could be.

The sloshing of the water outside and the sound of the voices around him faded and blurred into a pleasant murmur as Héctor shut his eyes.

He didn’t have much else going for him, but right now, his Shantytown family was enough.


	7. Cold-Blooded Torture (Héctor, Ernesto)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha, ha. You know when I told some folks that this chapter would be lighter than others? Well, uh, that was BEFORE someone else requested this, and I suddenly decided I had to do this one right away. The more lighthearted oneshot is coming NEXT. It's already mostly-done! Just give me a bit. But for now...
> 
>  
> 
> **WARNING: THIS CHAPTER IS MATURE.**
> 
>  
> 
> I didn't want to re-rate the entire fic to M just because of this one chapter because it's the ONLY one that'll be this bad, but, yeah. No, seriously, this one is bad. Like, really really really bad. As in, please re-read the title of this chapter and seriously consider if you really want to read this.
> 
> ...Still here? Okay. Don't say I didn't warn you.
> 
> Another thing I need to mention is that this is technically a "bonus chapter" for my other fic, _Neither Can You_ , and takes place directly after [chapter 3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13456638/chapters/30998826). You may want to skim that chapter before reading this. If not, quick summary:
> 
> A few months post-movie (pre-epilogue), Ernesto traps Héctor, lures him into an abandoned building, and asks him to make a choice between family or music. What Ernesto means by this is that he has sent out a fake shoe order that Coco is currently delivering, and has men ready to attack her. Héctor, of course, chooses his family over his music. In response, Ernesto seemingly calls off the men going after Coco... and then proceeds to have his other men break Héctor's hand. This oneshot takes place immediately after this happens.
> 
> ...Still there? Okay.
> 
> Thanks to PaperGardener and Tomatosoupful for beta-reading this for me. (And shout out to my usual beta reader, Jaywings, who is under the weather right now. If you're reading this, I hope you feel better soon! D%) Without further ado, here we go.
> 
> Prompt: Cold-Blooded Torture  
> Characters: Héctor, Ernesto, “bonus scene” between chapters 3 and 5 of Neither Can You
> 
> (Now with an illustration by [dara/Elletoria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elletoria/pseuds/Elletoria)!)

_The room was dark, and that was the least alarming thing about it. The meager light from outside shone through a dusty window and the open door, and that was enough to make Ernesto's shimmering white bones stand starkly out from the darkness. While his focus was trained on the man, Héctor was vaguely aware of the other crates and boxes that littered the room—some long-forgotten apartment that had been haphazardly converted into a storage unit, then forgotten again…_

 

* * *

 

_I have to get out of here._

That was the only coherent thought running through Héctor’s head—the only thought that was managing to push its way past the intense agony in his right hand. Said right hand, he knew, was currently in various pieces in a metal box sitting somewhere in the dark room. Somewhere behind Ernesto’s two bodyguards that were looming over him—they hadn’t moved yet, and he wasn’t sure when they would. He was too scared to find out.

_Need to get out of here, maybe with the hand, maybe not, need to get out._

He did, he knew he did, but he wasn’t sure he could manage it. Part of him felt like if he tried to move, he would only make the pain worse, and he was so tired, he could just lose consciousness to get away from the pain—

_Don’t fall asleep, don’t, it’s not safe, not safe, wake up, get up._

Biting his lip, Héctor pulled up his legs, digging his heels into the floor and pushing himself back. He pulled his arms back to press his palms into the floorboards so he could push himself upright—

His missing bones responded to the subconscious command, clattering against the metal box they were held in, and Héctor _shrieked_ , falling hard against the floor.

“Don’t _hurt_ yourself, _hermanito_ ,” growled a voice from the other side of the room, and Héctor clenched his jaw in anger. “After all, we’re not done here.”

“ _What_?” Suddenly feeling much more awake, he looked back at the two men standing over him. In the dim light from the window on the other side of the room, he could see metal objects glinting in their hands. He still couldn’t tell what they were, and he wasn’t really keen on finding out.

“Ernesto, th-this is crazy,” he stammered, focusing on moving his left arm while keeping his right arm still. He managed to push himself upright this time, and fought to get back on his feet, only to fall at the sudden pain in his left leg—he must’ve injured it again in the struggle earlier.

“If you want to stop now, Héctor,” Ernesto began, and Héctor could barely make out the shine of his unnaturally white bones gleaming somewhere behind the bodyguards, “I can still call for your daughter to take your place instead.”

Héctor’s chest filled with ice. “Y-you can’t,” he choked. “You already called off—”

“I can get her back.”

“You’re _bluffing_!” he snarled, even as he felt his bones begin to tremble.

“Am I?” Ernesto tapped his phalanges against the metal box and exchanged glances with one of the guards, who pulled a radio out of his coat. “I suppose if you’re willing to make that gamble—”

“No, no!” His every instinct was screaming at him to run anyway, to take the risk that Ernesto might not be bluffing, but something far greater than that was telling him to stay, that he couldn’t risk _her_ , he couldn’t risk something happening to the one person he’d been fighting for years and years and _years_ just to have a _chance_ of seeing her again. Whatever was going to happen would just have to happen; if her safety was at risk, then there was no alternative.

“So are you willing to stay with us for a little longer, old friend?”

Héctor’s eyes flicked to the guards, then back to Ernesto. “I-if I do,” he said, fighting against the heavy weight of dread in his chest, “will you leave her alone?”

“Of course.” Ernesto smiled. “So long as you’re cooperative, there’s no need to get her involved.”

Héctor tried to study his former friend’s face in the dark, and was struck with a new horror—he had no idea if Ernesto was telling the truth. For all he knew, he could have his guards attack him, and then _still_ go after… Shuddering, he looked away, trying to think it through. If Ernesto was lying, what could he do? If he could get away, maybe he could try to make it to Coco before whatever sick person Ernesto had hired got to her, but he had no idea where Coco’s scheduled shoe delivery had been. He knew that she was going by herself, and he’d never thought to ask for the address. If luck was on his side, maybe the address was close by, but he had no way of knowing.

The Land of the Dead was vast, and for all he knew, Coco could be on the opposite side of it.

Terrified tears sprang to his eyes as he faced Ernesto again. “ _Promise_ me you won’t hurt her.”

“If you stay, then, yes, I promise no harm will come to her.”

_Please, please don’t be lying_ , he thought, and shut his eyes. “ _S-sí_. I’ll stay.”

“I thought so.”

Everything went quiet, other than the quiet shifting of the guards where they stood, the occasional _creak_ of the old building, and the trembling of Héctor’s bones. After a short eternity, one quiet noise sounded above the others:

Knuckles rapping against wood.

The floorboards creaked as one of the two bodyguards stepped forward, and Héctor finally opened his eyes. Before he could respond, one of them moved to his side, grasping his shoulders, shoving him down into the floor, and holding him there. Automatically Héctor tried to push the man away, but again his broken hand tried to respond to the action, and he cried out in pain.

Part of him expected some smart remark from Ernesto, but when he looked back at where the man had been standing, he instead found Ernesto farther away, his back to him. But before he could think on that any further, he saw the other bodyguard slip into the side room, and quickly return with an electric lantern, which he set atop a nearby crate and switched on.

Héctor blinked and squinted in the sudden brightness, his breathing picking up as his vision took a moment to adjust. Dust floated in the flickering, humming light, and the frame of the man cast a looming shadow over Héctor. Of course those stupid guards with their stupid sunglasses hadn’t been bothered by the light.

The man who had retrieved the lantern knelt next to him, and Héctor felt the guard’s hand against his middle, pinning his spine the the floor. To his confusion, the guard proceeded to tug at either side of Héctor’s vest, exposing more of his rib cage. He then brandished the object he’d been holding earlier:

A hammer.

A flurry of panic overcame him as his chest began to heave in short, sharp breaths. “No, no, no no no—!”

In one swift movement the hammer came down, connecting with two of Héctor’s ribs. In spite of the pain, he couldn’t yell—the blow had winded him, leaving him to give out only a choked, hollow gasp. Again he tried to push away, managing to keep his bad arm still while his good arm flailed, striking at the man as much as he was able and trying feebly to grab the hammer away. In response, the man that was behind him shifted his grip from his shoulders to his upper arms, making it impossible for him to reach out. Even so he pounded his fist on the floorboards, kicking his feet and digging his heels into the hardwood.

His rib cage heaved, and he felt the pain of two bruised ribs on the right side of his chest. _It could be worse_ , he tried to think, knowing full well it didn’t matter. But he had broken his ribs before—the one was still broken, the other missing—and he knew what they felt like. He’d gone through broken ribs before—he could handle bruised ribs. He could. He had to. He would heal, it wasn’t really that painful compared to—

_Clang._

The hammer struck at a higher rib on his left side, and he felt the crack—it wasn’t all the way through, it wasn’t broken, it was just cracked, it _hurt_ but it was just cracked, it would heal, it would heal, _dios_ , why was this happening…

Against his will, his mind supplied an answer in the flash of a vivid mental image: Coco held down by a man as another approached her with a hammer—

With sudden sob, Héctor shook his head against the image. _Please, please, no, you can’t do that to her, I stayed, I’m still here…!_

_Clang._

He gave a choked cry as the hammer slammed into the other side of his ribs—he didn’t want to be here, he didn’t want this, he knew he had to be here but he wanted _out_ , he wanted to be back home, he should’ve been home ages ago, why did he have to leave so late, he didn’t want to be here with Ernesto and these horrible men and that hammer, and… and…

That wasn’t what hammers were _for_. They weren’t supposed to be used like this—they used them to fix houses in Shantytown. He could remember using one himself as he helped Carla repair her roof for the third time, joking about how her shanty was very insistent about always having a hole in its roof. They used them to repair the boardwalks, like the one that broke as he was walking across it—

_Clang—crrk!_

It hurt it hurt it _hurt_ , his chest was heaving but it hurt to breathe, he could feel the cracks and bruises that the hammer had made—that wasn’t what they were _for_ , he would watch Imelda and the others at the workshop using them to make shoes, he saw Imelda making _his_ shoes though he didn’t know they were for him at the time, and then later she surprised him with the shoes as a gift, because she said if he lived there, he had to wear shoes—

_Clang_.

Where—where were they? Imelda? Coco? What time was it? Did they know he was gone? Did they miss him? Imelda would surely notice that he was late coming home. She would get angry at him, but would she come after him? But he didn’t want her _here_ , he didn’t want her in danger for his sake, this was his fault in the first place… If she went after anyone, maybe she would go after Coco to make sure she was all right? _Please, Imelda, make sure she’s okay, go after her—I’ll get out of this, but make sure she’s okay—_

_Clang—crack_.

Héctor _screamed_ , struggling to grab at his ribs, only to yelp again as his phalanges brushed against a jagged, broken bone. They’d broken a rib—one of his upper ribs, and it was agony to breathe. He tried to make himself stop—he was already dead so he didn’t _need_ to breathe, he didn’t _have_ to. He could just keep his rib cage still and it wouldn’t hurt so much. Holding his metaphorical breath, he screwed up his face, trying to force himself to stay still, stay still, _stay still, it’s going to hurt more if you move—_

_Clang—CRUNCH._

White-hot pain lanced through his rib cage, blinding him to everything but the sensation of another one of his uppermost ribs cracking through—a jagged crack that was agony every time the two ends rubbed against each other every time he breathed—he wanted to stop but his breaths came in heavy, shaking sobs—

_Clang!_

“ _STOP_!” he screamed through the pain in his chest, bucking against the restraints of both of the guards and actually managing to throw one of them off. The guard’s hand left his middle, while the other pressed down on his arms to keep him pinned to the ground. “ _¡BASTA!_ LET ME GO!”

“All right, enough, _enough_!”

To Héctor’s shock, the man who had been using the hammer stood up, looking at something on the other side of the room. Following his gaze, he found Ernesto was facing them again and looking… hunched over, one hand gripping a crate next to him—stressed? Upset? It didn’t matter—that torturer had stopped his assault, finally, so maybe this nightmare was over. Part of him almost wanted to say something, but talking would hurt. Instead he looked Ernesto in the eye, trying to discern what was to happen next—was this over? Come to think of it, he didn’t even know what Ernesto’s purpose in doing this was—something about… about his music?

Ernesto stared back, too far away for Héctor to be able to read his expression, and didn’t answer.

In spite of the pain, Héctor felt a flurry of panic return at the thought of something more horrifying to him than the thought of more broken ribs or fingers or hands—the thought of someone _else_ in the same fate as him. “C-Coco,” he stammered, fighting to talk through the pain, trying to sit up, but the other tormentor held him firm. “Coco, sh-she’s still safe, isn’t she?”

Ernesto remained silent, and Héctor’s panic grew.

“ _‘Nesto_?” he cried, eyes widening when he saw his former best friend turn away again. “Ernesto, is Coco—”

Ernesto looked away, and rapped his knuckles against the crate beside him.

The man behind him let go of his arms, and Héctor wasted no time in attempting to scramble to his feet. But the men wouldn’t allow it—the one who had assaulted him with the hammer shoved him back to the ground, one hand on Héctor’s shoulder and another on his sternum, and Héctor yelped. “NO!” he cried out again, kicking out with this legs and trying to push the man off of him. “L-let me go, _basta_! Let go—”

The pressure on his sternum increased, and he drew in a sharp intake of air that froze inside his chest. “Quit squirming,” the man growled, “unless you want another rib broken.”

Forcing himself to remain still, he glared at the man who held him down, only for his attention to be drawn to the other man at the sound of something metal clinking lightly against his hands. It wasn’t as large or heavy as the hammer, but whatever it was couldn’t mean anything good. Héctor felt a fresh wave of panic surge through his broken rib cage, not even knowing what they were planning this time. “N-no, no, not again, not—”

The man that was holding him down kept one hand on his shoulder, then grabbed underneath his jaw, jerking it back and knocking his skull against the floor. The impact dazed him, but the man didn’t remove his hand, keeping Héctor’s head wrenched back.

From this angle he could barely see the other man, which did nothing to soothe his frayed nerves. The man kneeled down next to him, holding out a long, thin metal object that glinted in the flickering light of the lantern behind them. Only a second later did Héctor realize what the object was, and he drew in a sharp, terrified gasp just as the blade scraped against his throat.

His cry was immediately choked and strained, his entire body squirming against the sensation. He tried to push the guard away again, but couldn’t. “ _S-stop_ …” he rasped, and immediately regretted it, his voice tearing into the cut in his bone.

Either they didn’t hear him or didn’t care, because again the blade came down, this time, striking up vertically across three vertebrae. Héctor gagged, eyes bulging as his kicking and squirming grew more erratic, but none of this helped—he only felt another hand at his other shoulder, pinning him down further, the guard leaning in closer. The only thing his brain was registering anymore was the need to get away from these men, all better judgment failing him as he tried to protest: “St… st…”

The knife sliced the sides of his neck three times in succession, back and forth, resulting in a rattling, rasping cry. The panic continued to build in his chest, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe, like he was going to suffocate—he couldn’t move his broken rib cage, and though he’d long since left behind his lungs that needed air and his heart that pumped blood, he swore he felt blood filling his throat, pooling down into his lungs, he was drowning, choking—

Slowly the blade began to dig into the middle of his throat, digging into the bones, and he gagged, trying to will himself to _breathe_. He was going to choke to death. Why was this happening, why was this…

“St— _kkkkkhhhh_ —st—”

“Hm?” came a voice that was closer than before. Had Héctor been able to focus more, he might have noticed that the voice wasn’t quite as calm as its owner would have liked. “Speak up, Héctor.”

He tried, he _tried_ , his voice fighting around the blade in his throat. “ _D-de—ggghhkkk—ja_ …” _Deja de..._

“You want them to stop?”

“S— _gghhhh_ …!”

“That… could be arranged. I believe we can still reach your daughter if—”

“ _NO_!”

The knife jabbed deeper into his vertebrae at the sudden shout, and he gagged again and again, certain he was going to die again, somehow. He was going to suffocate, _but it can’t happen to her. You have to let them do this to you. It can’t happen to Coco, it can’t…_

“Stop, _stop_ , move it away,” Ernesto demanded as he hurried closer, a frantic edge to his tone.

There was a brief pulling sensation at his throat, and distantly he realized the knife was stuck. With a sudden _yank_ it was out, leaving Héctor gagging and rasping, his chest heaving in short, uneven gasps and trying to reach up to claw at his ruined vertebrae, but his arm was still being held down.

Ernesto was standing over him, his expression unreadable, his eyes not quite focused on him. “Say something.”

Somewhere beyond all the pain, Héctor still felt a twinge of anger in his gut. Was he joking? What kind of sick joke was that? But the anger was short-lived, the exhaustion in his bones and the agony in his throat and chest and hand quickly overwhelming it.

Something nudged into the side of his chest, jarring his broken ribs and making him breathe in a sharp hiss of air that stung at his throat. “ _Say something_ ,” Ernesto repeated, his voice a low growl.

Héctor was not usually one for strong language, but a few choice words tried to force their way out of his ruined throat. Instead, all that came out were pained gags and wracking coughs that shredded through his broken bones.

For only a brief moment Ernesto regarded him before stepping back, looking away. “Let him go,” he said, tugging on his coat and walking up to one of the old crates nearby. “We’re done here.”

And the hands that had held him down were gone, weights lifted from his shoulders and spine. Automatically and in spite of the pain it caused, Héctor turned to his side and curled up on himself, yanking his vest back over his exposed ribs, tucking his right wrist under his vest, and pressing his forehead to his knees, trying to hide as many of his injuries as he could. While Ernesto was talking with his torturers in hushed tones, Héctor found himself caught in the struggle of wanting desperately to breathe, but at the same time, not wanting to breathe at all in order to avoid any more pain. He had to get out of there, he knew, but right now he could barely will himself to move, let alone crawl out of this awful building, and—

Suddenly remembering just why he had been forced to stay in the first place, he frantically looked up, eyes wide. “C—” he choked, only for his voice to degenerate into ragged coughing. “C—Co—”

A pair of hands hooked under his arms and hoisted him up, and he screamed voicelessly, cringing at the sharp pain in his throat. _No, no, no, he said they were done!_ Frantically he struggled against the men’s grips, kicking with his legs and trying to pull away. He felt something clap onto his head, and belatedly realized one of them had shoved his hat back on—it must have come off at some point during the struggle.

“Take him out,” Ernesto commanded, and the men began to drag Héctor out of the dusty room.

Héctor fought to kick out his legs again, but his strength left him, leaving his heels to drag on the floor. Still he tried to reach out, staring at Ernesto desperately. “C—c…” _Coco, is she okay, please tell me you kept your word, please…!_

“Wait.”

The men stopped, and he felt a sickening mixture of terror and hope flickering in his chest. _Please, please tell me, tell me she—_

“Héctor,” Ernesto began, picking up a metal box and taking a few stiff strides closer to him. “Are you listening to me?”

_I don’t have much of a choice, do I?_ Héctor thought bitterly from where he hung between the two guards. He lifted his head slightly and glared as much as he was able, not sure if his expression could clearly be seen in the dark and not really sure if he cared anymore. The bitterness left him as quickly as it came, with worry taking its place. _Please tell me, Ernesto, please…_

Whether Ernesto could read his expression or not, he looked him over for a few moments. At one point his eyes fell on Héctor’s rib cage and he quickly looked away, giving a barely-suppressed shudder. “I didn’t want to do this,” he muttered lowly, and Héctor stiffened. “You gave me little choice.”

Rage bubbled up within his broken rib cage, briefly giving him the strength to tug against the men, but they yanked him back, and it was gone.

“There’s no need for that,” Ernesto went on, taking a half-step back. “We’re done here. But… if you like, you’re free to talk about this, of course.”

_You made me so I can’t,_ Héctor fumed, but the anger was only draining him now, rather than giving him any kind of energy. _Please, just tell me my Coco is—_

Ernesto causally rattled the box he held, and Héctor gave a voiceless cry as a dozen jumbled sensations of pain shot through his hand. Waiting for Héctor’s frantic, short breaths to slow, Ernesto rubbed a hand against his own throat before continuing: “I want nothing more to do with _you_. But your _family_ … they still hold a great interest to me.”

Héctor froze, a tremor running through his bones. _No, no…!_

“If you decide that the media or police should know about this…” Ernesto glanced to the side, seeming to consider something for a moment before smirking back at Héctor. “…perhaps I’ll have to see about getting a new pair of shoes for the interview, hm?”

_No, no, no, you can’t…!_

“I have faith in you, _hermanito_ ,” he said, turning away. “I’m sure you’ll only say what you think is right.” With one last glance over his shoulder, he snapped his fingers, and the men began to move once more.

_Wait, wait, no!_ Héctor tried to fight against them, but his exhausted limbs refused to cooperate. _Ernesto! Tell me she’s okay! ¡_ Por favor _!_

But Ernesto said nothing more, and the two men dragged him out into the trash-filled alley where this entire mess had started. Unceremoniously they dropped him to the ground, and he fell on his right side, catching himself on his bad arm. As a mute cry attempted to force its way out of his throat, the men swiftly stepped back into the building, tossing something else out beside him before slamming the door shut.

Héctor found himself alone among the trash, and feeling much like it himself.

For a long while he lay there on the ground, not feeling in any state to move or even think. From where he lay just outside the doorway, as his eyes adjusted to the dark he could barely see the junk that had been piled up, and he found himself staring blankly at it. It didn’t feel real, he realized—everything that had happened to him. Everything felt hazy and strange, like a nightmare, like none of it had really happened. Here he was, so close to where he’d tripped and fallen—could he have simply knocked himself out on something and awoken here again?

After considering it for a moment, he tried to push himself upright, only for the end of his right arm to scrape against the dirty cobblestone. The pain caused him to cry out, the sound barely coming out as a squeak that immediately degenerated into a choking and coughing fit. He tried to stop himself and just _breathe_ , but the attempt only left his rib cage in agony.

It was all real—he had the injuries to prove it. But if it was real, that meant…

_Coco…!_ he thought desperately, and struggled to push himself up on his good arm. His frame shook with the effort, but still he tried to get back upon to his feet. His leg ached, though the pain seemed trivial compared to every other part of him that hurt. But even as he pushed himself upright, he found that was about all he had the strength to do, as he had to lean back against the wall of the building.

But Coco… he still didn’t know if she was all right—unsure if Ernesto really had kept his word or if he would come home to find her in the same awful state as him, if he found her at all… or if he ever went home at all. How was he supposed to get home in the first place? How _could_ he?

His thoughts immediately went to Imelda, surely furious at him for coming home so late, for making them worry. And now here he was, actually giving them a _reason_ to worry. Then she’d ask what had happened and he… what could he even tell her?

_“If you decide that the media or police should know about this, perhaps I’ll have to see about getting a new pair of shoes for the interview, hm?”_

Coco…

He didn’t know where she was, or where the shoe delivery had been to. How was he supposed to find out if she was all right? He couldn’t walk, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t even tell her he was sorry—

It wasn’t until he felt the pain from his chest heaving in quick, uneven gasps that he realized he was crying. It hurt his ribs, it hurt his throat, but he couldn’t stop, finding himself sliding down the wall and back to the ground, curling up on himself once again. _I’m sorry I got you into this, I’m sorry I let this happen, I’m sorry…_ he thought, wishing he could say the words to his daughter, but he couldn’t even speak. _Ernesto…_ His mouth twisted. _If you did anything to her, I’ll…!_

Wait—but that was it, wasn’t it? Ernesto had asked him to stay quiet, or he would go after his family. If he already went after Héctor’s family, what would stop Héctor from immediately going to the police?

Ernesto surely wouldn’t be so stupid… which meant that Coco should still be all right. _Dios_ , he hoped so. He wasn’t sure what else he had left to hope in.

Part of him wondered if his family would come looking for him—Imelda might or might not, but she’d be angry either way. Coco might come looking, if she was all right, but he didn’t want that—he didn’t want her anywhere near this terrible place. He didn’t want Imelda here either, come to think of it—for them to see him in this state…

Perhaps he could get back to Shantytown? No one would ask too many questions there, and he could hide there until he got better, until he was ready to face his family again. He still remembered when he’d limped and crawled his way there after breaking his leg, and Cheech and the others had taken care of him until he could walk again, but… all of them, even Cheech, were long gone now. But maybe if he could…

Slowly drawing in as deep of a breath as he could, he tried to rise to his feet, leaning against the wall behind him, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate. Not knowing what else to do, he rested his head on his knees again, shutting his eyes and hoping again that he would wake up from this nightmare.

Héctor wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he felt _something_ nearby—the prickling feeling on the back of his neck, like he was being watched. Shuddering, he lifted his head and looked down the alley, out toward the street—

A pair of enormous yellow eyes gazed back at him, as something monstrous drew in a deep breath through its nose. Through his exhausted haze, he could make out the glow of yellow and green markings—

The _alebrije_ let out an explosive _snarl_ , frantically reaching her enormous paws out to Héctor, not coming nearly close enough, and raking her claws against the side of the building in frustration. With a choked cry he tried to get away, his terror granting him the strength to scramble closer to the door he’d been thrown out of. The _alebrije_ stood there, growling, before darting off and out of sight.

Héctor couldn’t breathe. That… that had been Imelda’s _alebrije_ , Pepita. She’d sounded furious, and… if she was here, then Imelda couldn’t be far behind, and was likely just as angry.

Part of him was relieved that help was coming, but still he felt his heart gripped with fear. What could he tell her?

For a long while he sat there, trying to breathe in shallow breaths as he thought it through, but no solution came to mind. He felt trapped—he couldn’t get away or hide, he couldn’t tell her anything even if he needed to, and… and…

Then he heard it—the faint sound of voices nearby, though too far away and too quiet for him to identify. People were coming—whether it was Imelda, or Ernesto’s men coming back for more, he wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t stay here.

Biting his lip and summoning what little strength he had, Héctor pushed himself back up on his feet, leaning heavily against the wall, and then carefully eased along it until he was standing right against the door frame. He pressed himself as close to the wall as possible, hoping the shadows would hide him. He wasn’t sure what good hiding would do at this point, but his only other option was letting someone see him like _this_ , and—

An earsplitting _yowl_ echoed down the alley, and he gave a silent yelp, tucking his bad arm under his vest and keeping his other arm wrapped defensively around his chest.

“Héctor? _¿Estás ahí?_ ”

Imelda. So she _had_ come back to find him. Part of him wanted to wilt, but he kept himself firmly pressed against the wall, and kept quiet. As he listened to her footsteps gradually grow closer, he shut his eyes, afraid of potentially meeting her gaze.

The sound of her boots against the cobblestone grew louder for a moment, then softer; she’d passed by him.

“Pepita! Are you sure this is the right place?”

The _alebrije_ gave another terrible _yowl_ in response, her claws digging into one of the buildings. Thankfully she couldn’t fit into the alleyway, or she would’ve pounced on him by now. On top of that, Imelda was still overlooking him—he could hear her rifling through the garbage. Maybe she would leave. Is that what he wanted?

Yet Pepita was still yowling, scratching more frantically. _Go away,_ alebrije, Héctor thought, shuddering. _Please…_

He thought he heard Imelda say something else, but he wasn’t sure what—Pepita was making too much noise for him to tell. Was she coming closer? Pressing himself further against the wall, he risked opening his eyes and—

Imelda was only a few feet from where he stood, and she immediately brandished her shoe. With another silent yelp, he tugged his hat over his face, cringing. _No, no, no…_

It was a short eternity before she spoke. “ _Hector_? What in the world are you doing?!”

Of course she was furious. She had every right to be, and even if he could speak, there wasn’t anything he could think to say, except… “S… s…” The sound refused to properly come out of his wrecked throat, his chest heaving with the effort.

“We’ve been looking everywhere for you! What did you think you were doing, worrying us all to final death?!” she went on, and he felt his stomach twist in guilt. “What were you doing, _hiding_ from us all this time? Are you listening to me?”

“S… s…” _Sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to worry anyone, I didn’t mean for this to happen. Please tell me Coco is all right…_

Distantly he could hear Pepita continuing to yowl, but the _alebrije’s_ voice paled in comparison to the anger in Imelda’s.

Said anger, however, faded as Imelda spoke up again, her voice uncharacteristically quiet: “…Héctor?”

He felt her hand against his, and flinched, but there was nothing else he could do other than let her guide his hand upward, lifting his hat away from his face.

And Héctor gave the most apologetic smile he could muster, trying one last time to force the words out of his throat:

“S… sorr…”


	8. Damaged Vocal Cords (Héctor, Imelda, Ernesto)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya folks! OKAY, so if I didn't scare everyone away with that last chapter... This one is MUCH more lighthearted and more humorous than all the others. It was fun to write! Thanks to Jaywings and PaperGardener for beta-reading for me. Next one will be lighthearted as well!
> 
> Prompt: Damaged Vocal Cords  
> Characters: Héctor, Imelda, Ernesto, pre-movie

Héctor and Imelda had only been married for a few weeks now, and Imelda was embarrassed to find Héctor already seeing her in an awful state—that is to say, Imelda was sick.

True, they’d known each other since they were kids, but whenever she’d caught an illness, she had stayed indoors with her parents taking care of her. Now, it was just her and Héctor. Before, he’d always insisted how beautiful she was. Now… well, she couldn’t imagine she looked all that wonderful with her dripping nose, pale face, and messy hair.

“ _Ay,_ I’m _fine, mi amor,_ ” Imelda croaked for the dozenth time, just before she sneezed again into her already-soiled handkerchief.

“ _Shh_ , don’t worry about it,” Héctor replied, gently brushing her hair away from her face. Her braid had come loose again and she was too tired to fix it up. “You’ll be over this soon.”

Still she found herself glancing away from him as she wiped her nose. Ever since she’d woken up that morning, she’d kept thinking back to the things the other women of Santa Cecilia warned her about—how as wonderful as Héctor seemed now, that would all change when he saw her at her worst, when she wasn’t pretty. She’d brushed it off then—Héctor had never, ever been like one of those men—but now, with how awful she felt, she found herself muttering, “I suppose I’m not exactly the beautiful woman you married, am I.”

She hadn’t meant to say it out loud, and winced when he gave a startled “what?” But rather than being angry, he went on: “Are you kidding? You’re as beautiful as the day I met you, _mi amor._ ”

Imelda paused, and turned to give him a look, but Héctor only grinned—a genuine smile, not a mocking one. She could feel how damp her hair and skin was from the sweat, and her nose was starting to drip again, and she truly, honestly had no idea what he was looking at. But seeing him smiling at her like an idiot even when she looked like a disaster, she found herself dissolving into tired laughter.

Unfortunately the stupid sickness had to make itself known again, and her laughter turned to dry coughs.

Héctor’s hand was immediately at her back, rubbing gentle circles until the coughing fit subsided. Groaning, Imelda rubbed her upper chest. “Weren’t you supposed to be playing with Ernesto today?”

“That can wait. I think I’ll make us some tea now—maybe it’ll soothe your throat.”

And so the next few days continued like that, Héctor spending much of his time taking care of her while they waited for the sickness to pass. He made her hot drinks to ease the pain in her throat, and with her help made some simple broths that she could easily swallow with her throat swollen as it was. Sometimes he would even bring out his guitar, playing and singing her favorite songs to lift her spirits.

He did go out to play with Ernesto when Imelda insisted that he needed to work, but evidently he found it difficult to focus, and would often leave early to be with Imelda again. This, of course, didn’t sit well with Ernesto, and a few times the other _músico_ begged for him to come back and play “just a few more songs.” Héctor had already taken a break from playing music with his friend while he spent his first married week entirely with his wife, and he’d only just gone back to playing music in the plaza when Imelda had gotten sick. While part of Imelda felt bad for keeping Héctor distracted from his work (and part of Héctor certainly felt bad about that as well), she was grateful he considered her more important than his music.

The sickness lasted a few days, and while the symptoms had finally started to fade, the constant dry coughing had taken its toll on her throat. It still hurt to swallow, and her voice had been rough already, but then she woke up one morning to something she hadn’t expected.

“ _Buenos dias,_ ” was what she’d meant to say when she saw him stirring by her side. What came out instead was a breathy croak that hurt her throat to force out.

Immediately she put a hand to her mouth, blinking in surprise, and tried again to speak, only for a barely-comprehensible squeak to come out instead.

Héctor, meanwhile, opened his eyes, and looked like he was about to smile at her before he saw the look of consternation on her face. “Imelda?” he asked, pushing himself up on his elbow. “What’s wrong?”

_I don’t know,_ she tried to answer, but her sore throat wouldn’t let the words come out.

Now Héctor was sitting upright, looking down at her in worry. “What happened to your voice?”

Imelda tried to speak again, only to break down into dry coughs. Wait… was that it? The coughing had worn her voice thin? She hoped that was all it was, anyway. Biting her lip, she sat up in bed, holding out her left hand flat, and making a writing motion on it with her right hand.

“Hm? Oh! _Sí, un momento._ ” Scrambling out of bed, Héctor stumbled over to his writing desk, shuffling through the piles of loose papers before finally finding a blank one. He then came back with a pencil, a sheet of paper, and a book for a flat surface to write on. “Is it your throat?” he asked, handing her the items.

She nodded, brow furrowing before she wrote: _Do you think this is permanent?_

Reading over the paper, Héctor looked just as worried. “I… don’t know. I don’t think so?” He thought it over, then perked up. “Oh! Wait, wait, this happened to my… my papá once, when I was little. His voice was gone for a few days, so he couldn’t shout orders at work.”

_We could send for a doctor—_

“ _Eeeeeehhh…_ ”

Imelda rolled her eyes. Did he _always_ have to be this way about doctors?

“Look, Imelda, my papá got his voice back then, and I’m sure you’ll get your voice back soon, too. You just need to rest for a few more days and you’ll be good as new. All right?”

Heaving a sigh, she nodded. She would like to get back to work rather than sitting around all day, but she supposed she couldn’t exactly go to the market if she couldn’t talk with the shopkeepers. …Oh! Quickly she scribbled onto the paper: _We do need to go to the market today._

“Don’t worry, I can handle it!” Héctor insisted. “Just write a list of the stuff we need and I’ll grab it for you. Now c’mon, let’s get you something warm to drink.”

Aside from not being able to talk, the morning was pleasant enough. Warm sunlight shone in through the windows, Héctor managed to make a decent breakfast for the both of them (the last of their eggs and a couple pieces of fruit, though Imelda was unable to finish her apple), and the tea did soothe her throat a little, even if it didn’t heal enough to talk. After that, they spent the morning together to finish some of the chores Imelda was able to do, and getting together a list of things that Héctor would need to pick up at the market. He asked if she would like for him to play any music for her, but she declined—they could do that later when Héctor came back, so he left his guitar sitting by the door.

When Héctor finally left, Imelda rested on a chair by the window. For a short while she tried to read a book, but found it was putting her to sleep. Shrugging, she set the book aside and leaned into the chair, allowing herself to doze. Maybe a brief nap would do her some good while she waited for Héctor to return.

A few minutes later, the door flew open with a _bang_.

At first Imelda thought that Héctor must have forgotten something, but he never slammed the door open like that. For a split second she felt a jolt of panic, wondering what might have happened to make him rush back in like that so shortly after he’d left, when she heard a voice call out:

“Héctor!”

Rolling her eyes, Imelda stood up from her chair and turned to see that Ernesto had barged into the house, and was frantically looking around. “Héctor?” he called again before his eyes fell on Imelda. “Do you know where he is?”

Imelda’s first instinct was to ask him what he was doing, coming in uninvited like that, but when she opened her mouth, he immediately cut her off.

“I don’t get this whole thing about needing to take care of you,” Ernesto muttered, looking her up and down. “You look fine to me. He can’t keep up that excuse.” With that he marched toward the kitchen, leaving Imelda dumbfounded.

Well, it wasn’t like she would’ve been able to say anything to him, anyway. She briefly considered grabbing some paper to write on, but leaving Ernesto alone for a moment too long sounded like a disaster waiting to happen. Heaving a frustrated sigh, she followed the man into the kitchen as he continued to rant, still searching for her husband.

“Honestly, if he keeps ducking out of his responsibility, he’s going to get rusty.” He turned to peer out the kitchen window, looking for Héctor in the courtyard in spite of the fact that Ernesto had just walked through it. “How are we supposed to become world-renowned musicians if he’s not playing every day?”

_Playing still counts even if he’s not playing for a crowd_ , Imelda thought, wishing she could say it out loud. _Ay_ , he’d only been there for barely a minute and he was already grating on her nerves.

“This is ridiculous,” Ernesto growled, turning away from the window. Imelda tried to approach him, but he took no notice, walking right past her and striding to the bedroom. “Héctor! Are you in there? Don’t tell me you’ve slept in!”

Anger burning in her chest, Imelda hurried up to him. The bedroom was not clean—they hadn’t bothered making the bed that morning, Héctor’s desk looked like a very large book had exploded over it, and the rest of the room was cluttered. Not to mention, it was their bedroom. _Don’t you_ dare _barge into the—_

“If you don’t wake up right now I’m going to drag you to the plaza myself.” With that, he threw open the bedroom door and walked in. Fuming, Imelda followed him.

Not finding Héctor there, Ernesto breathed a frustrated sigh. “This is getting ridiculous, where could he—” He broke off into a yelp when Imelda suddenly stepped in front of him abd shoved him back out into the hall. “ _Dios mio, mujer_ , are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

She leaned against the door frame, unimpressed, and sharply gestured out the door. _Stay out of our bedroom. And the house, please._

“You could have at least _said_ something,” Ernesto went on, brushing himself off and turning away. But rather than turning to leave, he headed toward the guest bedroom instead. “Where is he?”

_What—no! Get out!_ Imelda followed him as he peered into the empty bedroom, and yanked on one of his suspenders.

Yelping, Ernesto spun around and blinked at her in bewilderment. “What’s _wrong_ with you?” he cried, reaching back to re-adjust his suspender. “Tell me, Imelda—where is your husband?”

Imelda crossed her arms once and then pointed in the direction of their front door. _He’s not here,_ idiota _! Get out of our house!_

“Oh, out there?” Walking past her, Ernesto opened the front door. Instead of leaving, however, he peered around the courtyard. “I don’t see him anywhere.”

Fighting the strong desire to grab the nearest object and crack it over his thick skull, Imelda buried her face in her hands for a moment before stomping her foot to get the man’s attention. When he finally looked back at her, she drew in a breath, and tried again to speak: _Héctor is not here,_ she wanted to say, but her voice came out in a few breathy squeaks.

Ernesto stared at her for a long moment, as though looking at a particularly tricky line of sheet music, and finally his eyebrows flew up in recognition. “You can’t speak, can you?”

Imelda stared at him in exasperation. _No,_ she mouthed.

“So that’s why you’ve been following me around like a stray dog instead of saying anything,” he mused, rubbing his chin. “I was thinking you’d missed me.”

Missed him?! She’d just gotten married! Why would she miss hanging out with another man?! Unable to protest, she gave him the best expression she could to convey the anger and frustration she felt.

Still Ernesto continued to look her over, eyes narrowing as the gears turned in whatever rusty contraption passed as a brain for him. Something seemed to click, and his face brightened. “Well then,” he said, a seemingly-genuine smile crossing his features. “I suppose Héctor would appreciate it if I stayed here to help take care of his sick wife.”

_Qué._

“Knowing him, he won’t be out for long. Hopefully. But until he returns, I don’t suppose he’d mind if I made myself at home.” With that, he walked back into the kitchen, leaving Imelda with her mouth agape.

_Oh, you have got to be kidding._ Gritting her teeth, Imelda followed him into the kitchen to find him opening their cabinets and hunting around their table. He spotted an apple sitting on the table and snatched it up, taking a bite. It was their last one, but at least Héctor would be getting some more at the market—it was more frustrating to see him helping himself to their food uninvited. Still, she waited for him to finish eating before tapping him on the shoulder and pointing firmly in the direction of the door.

“Hmm?” he asked, setting the apple core on the table. “Is there something you want to show me, _señora_?”

_Sí. THE DOOR._ Pointing again, she eyed him until he turned to look where she was pointing. She relaxed as she watched him finally make his way to the door again, and turned to dispose of the garbage he’d left behind.

“What was it you… _oh_!”

To Imelda’s confusion, she heard the sound of something heavy being lifted off the floor, and her eyes widened in horror. _No,_ idiota _, you know that’s not what I meant—!_ Hurrying back out of the kitchen, she found Ernesto standing there, holding up Héctor’s guitar and tuning it.

“Of course, Imelda, I’d love to play some music for you.” Flashing her a smile, he pulled the guitar strap over his shoulder and began to strum a few chords. “Do you have any requests?”

Imelda grit her teeth. _Sí, for you to go away!_ She pointed at the guitar and gestured back to the side of the door, where Héctor had left it.

Ernesto ignored her, looking off to the side as he began to think something over. “Let’s see… what was the one you liked? Ah, _La Llorona_ , right?”

Blinking, Imelda stepped back. She hadn’t expected him to remember she’d liked that one—it was one of the first songs she’d heard Héctor play. Perhaps allowing Ernesto to show off a little wouldn’t be _too_ bad. It would certainly be less annoying than anything else he’d been doing. She nodded at him.

“Very well.” Ernesto played a few opening chords, closing his eyes as he began to sing, “ _Ay, de mi Llorona… Llorona de azul celeste…_ ”

With a soft sigh, Imelda took a seat on a nearby chair. If she couldn’t get rid of him, she might as well enjoy the music.

“ _Y anque la vida me cue_ —hey,” Ernesto said, opening one eye and glancing over at her, “you’re not singing along.”

She gave him a deadpan look.

Shrugging, Ernesto pressed his hand against the guitar strings to break off the music. “Well, since you can’t sing along to your favorite songs, perhaps I can sing something different.”

Oh, wonderful. Of course it wouldn’t be _that_ easy. _No,_ she mouthed, but of course that wouldn’t stop this great idiot.

“Perhaps a more romantic song?” Strumming a few more opening chords, Ernesto cleared his throat to begin a different song. “ _Everyone knows Juanita…_ ”

_AAGH! No,_ not _that one!_ Imelda waved her arms in a request to _stop_ , but of course Ernesto ignored it as he continued singing the awful song. Part of her wanted to grab her shoe and beat him over the head with it, but she’d hate for Héctor to come home to a sight like that. What kind of person would he think he’d married, if he found her attacking his best friend? She’d just put up with it for now, until Héctor came home.

She just hoped that would happen soon.

 

* * *

 

 

“…and so, I became more of a mentor to him, you know?”

Imelda dragged her hands over her face. Ernesto had given up halfway into the third dirty song, and she was frankly impressed he’d lasted that long, given how much he depended on an eager audience for his songs. Now, though, she almost wished he had kept it up, because his singing voice was at least marginally more pleasant to listen to than his normal voice.

Especially when he was rambling about himself.

“Of course, we are still best amigos and always have been, but I taught him everything he knows.”

_No you didn’t. He taught you how to play the guitar when he was five. I_ know _. I was there._ Not that it would make any difference, since Ernesto seemed lost in his own world as he rambled about his warped version of his own life to Imelda, as though she didn’t already know a great deal of it.

Just when she was certain he would never shut up, the front door opened and Héctor stumbled into the room, carrying several baskets full of food. “ _¡Lo siento, mi amor!_ I didn’t mean to take so long, but—” He paused, noting that two people were in the room. “Ernesto? What are you doing here?”

Imelda thought she would never be more happy to see her husband again. But just as she stood to greet him, Ernesto stood as well, already reaching out to help him. “Ah, _hermanito_ ,” he said, quickly taking some baskets from his friend, who sighed in relief. “I was just paying your wife a visit! I wanted to play her a few songs to lift her spirits.”

_You lying little—!_

“Oh, that’s great!” Héctor said, smiling at his friend. “Good to know you’re there to help us, _amigo_. Hang on…” He rushed into the kitchen to set the baskets down, and hunted through them for a moment before pulling out a couple beef empanadas and rushing to bring one over to Imelda. “Here! I grabbed something for the both of us.”

Her anger over Ernesto’s pestering quickly melted away as she took the food, resisting the urge to lean in and kiss her husband (she didn’t want him to get sick after all of this). Instead, she leaned in to give him a side-hug, which he gratefully accepted.

The hug only lasted for a few moments before Imelda could sense a certain persistent moron behind her. She found herself tensing in annoyance, and Héctor looked up.

“Not to interrupt, this uh…” Ernesto gestured at the two vaguely before shrugging. “But Imelda seems to be doing a lot better now, aside from her voice. Don’t you think she’ll be fine on her own, now, without you needing to interrupt our music to check on her?”

Imelda wrapped her free arm around her husband more tightly, partly to keep herself from slugging Ernesto.

“Eeeehh… I don’t know, Ernesto. I’d like to give it another day or two, just until she’s mostly better.”

“You can’t keep slacking off like this—”

“I’m not slacking off!” Sighing, Héctor looked down at Imelda. “What do you think, _mi amor_? Should I go back to the plaza now, or would you like me to stay home a little longer?”

Under different circumstances, Imelda would have said no—while her voice was gone, she was mostly fine otherwise, and didn’t really need help on her own. On the other hand… She took a quick glance at Ernesto and nodded, pulling closer to Héctor.

“That settles it, then. _Lo siento,_ Ernesto, but you’ll have to give us a few days.”

“I—!” Ernesto seemed to puff up for a moment, like a rooster that was about to start squawking, but he looked between the two and quickly deflated. “Fine, fine. But in two days, then! In two days, the plaza will once again hear the music of Ernesto _y_ Héctor!”

Imelda rolled her eyes, but Héctor laughed. “Of course. I’ll see you then! _¡Adios!_ ”

Finally Ernesto left. Imelda let out a sigh, leaning into Héctor, who gratefully leaned back for a moment before pulling away, holding out the empanada still in his hand. “Well, now that that’s done, are you hungry?”

Imelda nodded, following Héctor over to the table to eat. Part of her wanted to tell Héctor just how infuriating Ernesto had been, but she couldn’t anyway, and honestly she really didn’t want to make Héctor feel bad, especially when he was going out of his way to help her.

Besides… it wasn’t like she couldn’t confront Ernesto on her own _later_.

 

* * *

 

 

A couple days later, Imelda’s voice had mostly returned, and, as promised, Héctor had gone out to meet Ernesto in the plaza, Imelda joining him. To both their surprise, Ernesto had been leaving them alone. Héctor took it to mean his friend was respecting their wishes, while Imelda wondered if Ernesto had realized that she might confront him once she had her voice back, and was deliberately avoiding them. She supposed they would soon find out.

…Possibly.

Héctor walked in a circle, head twisting this way and that as he scrutinized the plaza. “That’s strange… Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” Imelda replied, her voice still a little rough but mostly better. “Wasn’t he supposed to meet you here?”

“ _Sí_ … He could have forgot—no, he was asking nearly every day. He wouldn’t have…” He spun around, giving Imelda a worried look. “Do you think something happened to him?”

_I think he might be hiding_ , Imelda thought, but shook her head. “Perhaps he’s still at home. Should we check?”

Already heading in the direction of Ernesto’s house, Héctor nodded, and Imelda followed. It didn’t take them long to get there, and Héctor immediately began knocking on the door. “Ernesto?”

Imelda waited patiently, not quite as worried as her husband, but curious if Ernesto really was hiding, or if something else was at play. She perked up at the sound of slow footfalls within—so he was home. Good. Now she could finally give him a piece of her mind.

Héctor seemed a little relieved, looking over at Imelda to say something before they both heard familiar wracking coughs on the other side of the door.

…Well, that was interesting.

Finally the door opened, and a very tired, very pale Ernesto gazed out the doorway. He looked like he was about to smile at Héctor before his eyes fell on Imelda, and he scrambled backward, clutching his throat.

“Ernesto!” Héctor cried. “Are you—?”

“That cough sounded awful,” Imelda said, covering her mouth as though she were shocked (in reality, hiding a smile). “Is your throat all right?”

“I—”

The single syllable he managed to get out was hoarse and barely audible, and he doubled over in another coughing fit.

“Oooh…” Héctor winced. “It sounds like you caught what Imelda had.”

“ _Qué terrible_ ,” Imelda said, looking away and swallowing a laugh. She could see Ernesto nodding hesitantly out of the corner of her eye, and turned back to see him staring at her warily.

“I, uh… guess we won’t be playing today, then.” Héctor’s frame wilted, but then he immediately perked up again, looking at Imelda. “Hey, could he come over? We could make him some soup.”

Imelda’s gut reaction was to reject the idea, but she stopped herself, glancing back at Ernesto, who seemed to have gone a shade paler. She grinned. “That’s a wonderful idea, Héctor! I’m sure he would appreciate the gesture.”

Catching the look in her eye, Ernesto put his hands up in defense, shaking his head. “No, no,” he managed to wheeze out, his voice barely there. “I don’t… want you getting sick.”

“That’s true… Well, we’ll make you something and drop it off, then. _¡Adios!_ Feel better soon, _hermano_.” And with that, Héctor and Imelda turned to leave… but not before Imelda gave Ernesto a smirk, which quickly turned into a grin at seeing the man flinch.

She had to admit, she’d been looking forward to finally confronting him again now that her voice was back. Giving him a piece of her mind had seemed like it would be rather satisfying, and she was almost disappointed she hadn’t been able to do it. However… giving him her _cough_ wasn’t a bad alternative.

Maybe now they’d finally have some peace without that idiot bothering them.


	9. Common Cold (Héctor, Imelda)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya folks! Ready for another oneshot? Like the last one, this one isn't angsty, but instead of humor, this one's more fluff! (Well, a bit of humor too, but you get what I mean.) Hope you enjoy! 'Cuz after this, we're right back to angst.
> 
> Thanks to Jaywings and PaperGardener for beta-reading for me!
> 
> Prompt: Common Cold  
> Characters: Héctor and Imelda, post-movie

Even an hour after the musical had ended, the theater was still crowded. Héctor was talking animatedly to one of the musicians in the crowded theater when Imelda placed a hand on his shoulder. “Héctor, remember what I said?”

“ _Sí, mi amor_ , of course!” he replied, and then turned to quickly wrap up the conversation with a promise to meet again later. That settled, he faced Imelda again, offering her his arm. “I remember, before ten.”

She nodded at him, smiling as she looped her arm around his, and the two of them walked out of the theater. “I will _not_ go to work on less than eight hours of sleep.”

He flashed her a grin. “So you’ll stay home with me, then?”

“ _Héctor!_ ” She gave him a playful shove, and they both laughed as they made their way to the gondola station.

This had been an evening they’d been planning for about a month now, as they worked their schedule around their jobs, extra deliveries, and concerts. Their lives weren’t the same as they’d been eight years ago—they were busier than ever, but it was absolutely for the better. Imelda may have missed having a slightly more lenient schedule, but she was more than willing to sacrifice that to be with her husband once more.

Tonight had been the night to see a musical—one Héctor had been highly interested in, since it was the premiere of one with brand new songs from a songwriter he liked. Apparently the musical had been unfinished in the songwriter’s life, and he’d simply picked it up again to finish it in death.

“It’s great isn’t it? When they haven’t lost interest in their writing,” Héctor babbled to her, even as he repressed a yawn. “Death can really be a killer on your inspiration for some people, heh, so it’s nice to see when it _doesn’t_ discourage them.”

Years ago the words would have left a twist in her gut, given the reason why he’d quit music all those ages ago, but it was something they’d long since worked out in the form of apologies, tears, and the music they sang and played together. Now, she was simply happy to see _him_ happy, and that was all that mattered.

The musical had been wonderful, and they found themselves losing track of time as they discussed the story and songs on the gondola ride back, tired though they were. As they stepped out of the station, they tried to recall the lyrics of a particular song they’d enjoyed. “It was something to do with that storm,” Imelda said, lifting up the hem of her dress as she stepped down a few stairs. “The one in the second act.”

Héctor hummed, taking her hand in his and swinging their arms back and forth as he thought, while his other hand held his hat in place to keep it from being blown away by the wind. “Something like… ‘And then the rain will fall—’”

“No, no, she never said ‘rain.’ It was certainly ‘storm,’ I remember. Oh, and ‘storming.’ She used it to rhyme with ‘warm’ and ‘warning.’”

“ _Sí_ , you’re probably right. But then—” He paused, and Imelda glanced over when his arm stilled, finding him with a stunned expression on his face. “…Rain?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It was absolutely ‘storm.’”

“No, no no, I mean _rain_.”

“But—”

A large drop immediately splashed onto her head, and she stopped.

“ _…Rain_.”

“ _Sí._ It—I thought it wasn’t supposed to do that today—”

The raindrops were coming faster now, and they were still a fifteen minute walk from home. “Did you bring an umbrella?”

“No.”

They swore simultaneously and took off running, Héctor removing his hat and holding it over Imelda’s head, for all the good it would do. Immediately she regretted wearing heels; though she’d hand-made them herself, even the most skilled Rivera craftsmanship couldn’t prevent the eventual ache that came with running in heels.

As they turned a corner, the rain picked up even more, as did the wind, causing the rain to beat against them in great gusts. It might not have been quite so terrible had it not been January, but as it was, it was bitterly freezing. Imelda’s dress was getting wet, though not soaked through, and her bones that weren’t covered with clothing felt like ice. That was bad enough, but they were so focused on getting home that they weren’t looking where they ran, and Héctor let out a startled _whoop_ as they splashed through a deep puddle, thoroughly soaking his nice pants and her dress.

“We should have taken Pepita!” Héctor called over the wind.

“In this rain with her wind speeds?”

“ _Aaaeeh_ … fair point!”

It felt like an age before they finally arrived at the _hacienda_ , and Héctor was quick to open the gate for Imelda. When they reached the house, Imelda fumbled through her purse with numb, shaking hands as she searched for the key, while Héctor wrung out his scarf. Finally they stepped through the door, both of them heaving an exhausted sigh of relief.

“That… could have gone better,” Héctor remarked as he hung up his hat. He then pulled off his wig, twisting it to wring it out.

“Stop that, don’t dry it out over the floor like some animal,” Imelda said, shivering as she turned to close the door. Before she could, however, a winged, hairless _alebrije_ squeezed through, stood between the two skeletons, and shook himself dry. Imelda cried out in disgust, while Héctor sighed heavily.

“Thank you for the demonstration, Dante,” he said, deadpan, as he replaced his wig with a wet _thwap_. Dante, meanwhile, trotted over to the living room and flopped down onto the rug, rolling around on it to further dry himself. Neither of them had the energy to scold him for it.

Imelda glanced at the wall clock, wincing when she noticed the time. “Ten minutes to ten,” she breathed, her shoulders sagging. “At least we made it home on time.” The rest of the house was deserted—everyone had already gone to their respective rooms for the night, and it was about time they get to theirs.

As she made her way up the stairs, Héctor let out a great yawn, attempting to speak through it: “—shower would’ve been nice.”

“Yes, and then I would have to put you back together and carry you out of the bathroom after you fall asleep in the tub again.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I say it because we both need to sleep in _bed_ , _mi amor_.”

It was a pain to disrobe from their sopping wet clothes, but they managed, toweling dry and changing into freshly-washed night clothes. Sure enough, they slipped into bed just before the clock struck the hour. “ _Gracias_ for taking me to the play, Héctor,” she murmured as she settled next to him.

Wrapping his arms around her, he mumbled something barely comprehensible in response: “Mm… Sorry ‘bout… the rain…”

Imelda smiled. “I’m deeply offended you couldn’t control the weather.”

Héctor chuckled softly beside her, and it was the last sound she heard from him before he drifted off, and she soon followed.

 

* * *

 

 

Imelda didn’t know what time it was when she found herself slipping back into awareness; all she knew was that it was freezing, and the sound of her bones shivering against Héctor’s was rather obnoxious.

Blinking in the darkness, she tried to discern the time from the clock on her nightstand. The hands on it glowed faintly (it was a little more modern than she normally liked, but it was a gift from her brothers, and she had to admit the feature was useful), and it took her a moment to realize that it was a little after one in the morning. She really should go back to sleep, and tried to settle closer to Héctor, hoping he would provide more warmth.

To her surprise, the clattering sound of bone against bone grew even louder, and she realized Héctor was shivering as well. It wasn’t just her, then—it really _was_ freezing in the room. Luckily she kept a few extra blankets in the trunk at the foot of their bed, but the problem was getting out of bed without waking Héctor up. She tried to slip out from his arms, but he only let out a faint whine, wrapping his arms around her more tightly. Fortunately she knew the workaround to this, and carefully tugged her pillow between herself and her husband. Héctor responded by wrapping himself around the pillow, leaving Imelda to slip away.

Crawling out from under the quilt and standing barefoot on the hardwood floor seemed to increase her chill tenfold. Imelda retrieved the blanket and spread it over their quilt as quickly as she could before returning to the warmth of the bed. However, the added weight and warmth of the blanket didn’t seem to completely chase out the cold—in fact, it felt almost simultaneously too hot and too cold—but it would have to do.

Imelda tugged the pillow out of her husband’s arms and settled next to him once more. Hopefully this would be the end of it, and the chill wouldn’t wake either of them up for the rest of the night.

 

* * *

 

 

Of course, the universe seemed keen on disregarding Imelda’s wishes. It didn’t feel like much later that Imelda found herself waking again (at five thirty-eight, the clock cheerfully informed her) to a terrible chill once again. This was absurd—had they left a window open? Or the balcony door? But why would they do that in the middle of winter?

Lifting herself up on her arm, Imelda glanced toward the windows. The curtains were pulled over them, but she could faintly hear the sound of wind and rain outside—if the windows were open, the curtains would be billowing in the wind, surely. She had to twist herself around, looking up over Héctor to see the curtains covering the balcony door, but they too were still.

Ridiculous.

Clearly there must be a draft somewhere in the house—possibly from her brothers conducting another experiment without her permission, or perhaps Pepita had scratched another hole in the side of the building. Either way, she would deal with it after she got ready for work.

Imelda tried to leave the bed again, only to find Héctor clinging to her once again, shivering. “Nooo… no, stay,” he mumbled, half-asleep, and Imelda blinked.

She knew what he’d said, but for some reason, he sounded like he was speaking through a stuffy nose. Which made little sense, given they didn’t _have_ noses anymore. Regardless, she rolled her eyes, letting him cling to her for a few more moments. It wasn’t six yet, after all.

Héctor seemed pleased with this, sighing as he tucked his head against her shoulder.

The only thing keeping Imelda from enjoying the peacefulness of the moment was the chill in the air and—she now realized—the strange ache in her chest and in her joints. Remembering she’d been running around in her heels last night, however, she figured that was probably what was causing the soreness. That’s what it had to be, not… anything else. It was her fault for wearing impractical footwear that night—a rarity for a Rivera, but it did happen.

Eventually the minutes ticked on, and it was time to get up. Once more exchanging herself for a pillow, Imelda slipped away from her husband and prepared for a usual day of work at the _zapatería_. When she found herself sniffling, she blamed it on the new perfume she’d picked up at the store—she would have to try a different brand later.

In spite of how cold and sore Imelda felt, she finished getting ready (putting on a long-sleeved dress this time) and made her way down the first flight of stairs. She reached the landing, paused, then sneezed.

Her first instinct was to cover her face in surprise, but she forced herself to relax the second she heard footsteps scurrying closer. A door just by the stairs creaked open, and Oscar and Felipe poked their heads out into the hallway.

“ _Salud_.”

“ _Buenas dias,_ ” she said, giving her brothers an unimpressed look. “I thought you were supposed to clean and dust around here yesterday.”

“Oh, we did!” Felipe exclaimed, ducking back into the room for a moment.

“ _Sí_ ,” Oscar confirmed. “We used our prototype dusting machine!”

Felipe stepped out into the hallway, carrying a contraption that consisted of two feather dusters tied to a device with a crank attached. He immediately began working it in demonstration, and the feather dusters spun in a circle. “We completed our task with only minor complications.”

“It only took half an hour longer than normal.”

“It seems you missed a spot or two, then,” Imelda said, turning away and fighting the urge to sniffle. (She didn’t have a nose, so there was nothing to sniff _with_ , or even _sneeze_ with, for that matter.) “You should do a more thorough cleaning after work today.” With that, she headed down the second set of stairs before they could protest.

The morning continued to go on as normal, mostly, as the others made their way downstairs and started their breakfast before work. It was all fine at first—a few of them asked how her date with Héctor had gone last night, and she’d been happy to tell them about it. But she could also tell they were glancing at her every so often, with the way she avoided eating and kept to short sips of coffee instead, but she ignored them as she tried to hide her shivers. She already knew what they wanted to say—that she must be sick, and should take it easy, but they all knew better than that.

At least, she thought they did.

“Mamá Imelda,” Rosita said, and Imelda snapped to attention, realizing she must have zoned out. “You should probably stay home and rest. You seem like you’re—”

“I am _not_ sick,” Imelda said, resisting the urge to sniffle again. Her voice was taking on the same stuffy quality her husband’s had, much to her annoyance. “You know we can’t get sick. We don’t have anything to be sick with.”

The others exchanged glances, and Imelda rolled her eyes. “It’s all a trick of the mind. I’m not _really_ sick, but because of a bit of rain…” She shook her head. “I’ll be heading in today. This is nothing to miss work over.”

Fortunately that seemed to shut everyone up, and she was grateful that they finally dropped it. Or perhaps they knew there was no point in arguing? In any case, she was glad to get that out of the way.

Until Coco brought up something else: “Has anyone seen Papá?”

“He’s usually up by now, isn’t he?” Victoria asked, glancing toward the stairs.

That was true; it wasn’t uncommon for Héctor to wake up late, and none of them really minded, but usually he tried to be up on time to go with Imelda in to work, at least. Recalling the way her husband had been shivering earlier, Imelda frowned. “I’ll go check on him,” she said, heading for the stairs. “Don’t wait for me. I’ll be in to work on time.”

She didn’t care whether or not any of them believed her, because she’d make sure of it herself. She _would_ be in to work today. There was no reason not to be. Sure her feet hurt, but she wasn’t going to be on her feet all day. And maybe her chest hurt a bit, but she wasn’t going to be doing any running around, either. She would be fine.

Stepping into the bedroom, she found Héctor still asleep and shivering, his arms clutching the pillow. She approached the bed, reached out to brush his hair out of his face, and felt his forehead. Sure enough, it was warm—he was running a slight fever, though nothing serious. Sighing softly, she ran her hand through his hair, and he stirred.

“Stay here and rest, Héctor,” she said gently. “I’ll come back to check on you during my break.” Bending down, she planted a light kiss on his forehead before pulling away.

Just as she approached the bedroom door, however, she felt a soft tug on the back of her apron. Confused, she turned around, only to find nothing out of the ordinary—Héctor was still seemingly asleep in bed. When she turned to face the door again, she felt another tug, and this time reached back, startled to feel something long sticking out of her back. Quickly she yanked it off of her and held it in front, only to roll her eyes exaggeratedly at the sight of Héctor’s arm waving cheerfully at her.

Looking back again, she found Héctor propped up on his other elbow, eying her with a raised brow bone and a playful-but-tired smile on his face. “You’re not going to work,” he said, his voice still stuffy with cold, and Imelda clicked her non-existent tongue.

“I _am_. Stop messing around and get some rest.” Imelda tossed the arm back to the bed. While she noticed he’d failed to catch it, she didn’t think anything of it until she felt something tugging at her apron again. “ _Héctor_!”

Héctor’s other hand was rather insistently tugging at her skirt, and when she pulled it to her front, it stood up on her hand on two of its fingers, looking almost like a little person. The sight amused Imelda until the hand managed to leap up on top of her head, then settled to her forehead, just long enough for Héctor to feel it.

“You have a fever,” he said, and the hand jumped away from Imelda as he recalled it, moving back to his wrist with a reconnecting _pop_. “And you’re not going to work.”

“How on earth do you manage that?” Imelda asked, hands on her hips.

“Telling that your temperature is higher than normal?”

“I mean that trick with your hand.”

“Oh.” Héctor sat up, rubbing his wrist sheepishly. “Well, when you’re dead for a hundred years, you get kinda bored sometimes…” He plucked off his left hand again, setting it on his right palm, and made it do a convincing imitation of a _zapateado_ dance.

“Very impressive.” Imelda smiled, cocking a brow herself. “But I’m not going to stay home from work tod—” Her voice broke off into a series of coughs, and she held a hand to her chest.

“Imelda…” Héctor said, his voice softening as he scooched over to sit on the edge of the bed. “This isn’t like… how things were in the Land of the Living.”

“Exactly,” she said, wincing slightly at the roughness of her voice. “This is all just in our mind thinking that we’re sick. Nothing more.”

Héctor shook his head. “Not what I mean. It’s…” He scratched the back of his head, looking away. “I know, back then, you had to work hard, even if you weren’t feeling well… because you _had_ to, if you wanted to feed everyone.”

Picking up on the hints of guilt tugging at his words, Imelda took a seat next to her husband, reaching out. “Héctor—”

He held up his hands in protest. “No, no. The point is… everything’s okay, now. We don’t have to worry about money, and the others can handle running the shop without you for a day.”

Imelda glanced away. “But I’m not—”

Héctor cut her off again, this time unintentionally with a sneeze, nearly knocking his wig off. Startled, he held a hand to his head to straighten his hair before giving a slight laugh. “Listen, you told me to take it easy, and I’m pretty sure you’re feeling the same as me. Right?”

Before she could answer him, she nearly sneezed, herself, and paused long enough to suppress it. “No.”

Héctor laughed, and Imelda chuckled as well.

“Very well,” she conceded. “I’ll stay home… on one condition.”

Héctor beamed, sitting up straight. “ _¿Sí?_ ”

Imelda gave him a half-smile. “You have to make tea for the both of us.”

“ _Sí_ , Imelda!” He went to push himself up off the bed, only to pause, and laugh again.

“What’s so funny?”

“You told me last night that you wouldn’t stay home with me if you got eight hours of sleep. But I guess now you get the best of both worlds, eh?”

“Ugh.” She shoved him backwards onto the bed, but smiled. “I’ll make the tea myself.”

**Author's Note:**

> Pssst! I'm still taking prompt requests for this! If you're interested, check out [this post](https://bcdrawsandwrites.tumblr.com/post/175185734323/posting-this-before-i-forget-this-is-my-card-for), read the guidelines, look at what prompts have already been submitted, and shoot me a prompt!


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